Slytherin's Warning
by purpleshrub
Summary: The Dark Army has no place for a man who can’t kill, yet Draco Malfoy is not about to join the Light… is he? Stuck in a house with Remus Lupin, it’s well past time for Draco to reflect, grow, and make the choice between what is right and what is easy.
1. Running

A few notes and warnings before we begin (actually, a lot—sorry. Future notes will be more limited):

_Slytherin's Warning_ is a story about one direction Draco Malfoy's life could have taken after the disastrous end of his sixth year at Hogwarts—a direction he never would have expected. It is compliant with canon through the end of book six. As such, there will be a nod to the romantic relationships depicted in canon. However, that won't be the story's focus at all, and I think of it as gen.

Now, a warning: I think JKR is killing 2 major characters in DH--and I' relieved she's not killing more. But in this story quite a few won't make it. I am, for example, killing off 59 percent of the students we know to be in Harry's year (but I'm not telling you who, of course). Consider no one safe (not even the narrator). While almost all the deaths take place off-screen, as it were, discussion of them may be very blunt. If you disagree with the rating I've given it, please let me know.

If you want to flame, all I ask is that you include plenty of spelling and grammatical errors. That would make me feel a bit less crushed. : ) Also, if you see something that seems "wrong," please keep in mind that this story is from Draco's point of view, and consider if he has the information we (having seen the stories through Harry's eyes) possess. It is my stated intention to have the story completely online before DH comes out (and makes it all AU). It will be close, but I think I can do it.

It goes without saying, of course, that neither Harry Potter nor the universe he inhabits belong to me.

Thanks for reading, and on with the story….

1 - Running

_Everything burns  
While everyone screams  
Burning their lies  
Burning my dreams  
All of this hate  
And all of this pain  
I'll burn it all down  
As my anger reigns  
'Till everything burns…_

chorus from _Everything Burns (Ben Moody ft. Anastacia)_

Draco ran. He was faintly aware of Master Snape somewhere behind him, and other shouting voices, but he didn't slow down or dare a look back. He breathed heavily, focusing on the mechanical task of running. It took him a moment to realize he'd passed the gates and thus Hogwarts' wards, so he ran a little farther than he really needed to before stopping. Still not looking back, he concentrated and Disapparated with a "pop."

He reappeared in a large, empty room, devoid even of furniture and wall decorations. Draco took a few deep breaths, but could still feel his heart hammering. His legs suddenly felt like jelly, and he barely made it to the wall before they gave out completely, forcing him to slide to the floor. It was shock, he realized; his hands were trembling as well. Letting them fall to his lap, Draco closed his eyes and let his head fall back to rest against the wall. Master Snape would be here soon; until then he just needed to wait. Master Snape was fine, and he'd know what to do.

_Professor Dumbledore is dead._

Draco stiffened again at the thought, and his trembling increased. Of course the fool was dead, and good riddance too! After all, hadn't that been his goal all year? Hadn't he been patient, crafty, the ultimate Slytherin as he closed in on his prey like a shark circling a minnow? But—the image was fixed in his mind; the green light jetting forward, those infuriating blue eyes going blank as the headmaster fell.

"You are not a killer," the headmaster had said. It was practically the first thing he'd said, in a conversation where Draco should have been the one in control, yet _still_ was not. What if—Merlin, no! It couldn't be—but what if… Dumbledore was right? Faced with his moment of ultimate glory, Draco had frozen. Even now as he grappled for some excuse, some justification for his failure, they all sounded empty. If the old man was right, it was all over. Draco had no illusions about the future of a Death Eater unable to do his duty. Belatedly realizing his hands were clenched into fists, he let out a long breath and consciously fought for calm, for self-control. Master Snape would come soon, and he'd know what to do.

A few seconds or an eternity later—and surely one of the two—Master Snape appeared with the signature soft crack that accompanied skilled Apparition. He didn't appear injured, but Draco still flinched away a little as the older man strode towards him. Master Snape's black eyes gleamed with a hatred and revulsion that Draco hoped to Merlin wasn't directed at him. Though he had failed….

"What are you waiting for?" Master Snape hissed, and roughly pulled Draco to his feet. Resisting the urge to rub his arm even though it hurt, Draco took hold of one end of the scrap of green fabric the other man held. It was a Portkey, of course. Only a chosen few were given access to the geographical information needed to Apparate directly to their Lord, after all. After a moment Draco felt the familiar tug from behind his navel.

They landed a moment later in another featureless room and Master Snape disintegrated the used Portkey without a word before drawing another scrap of fabric a slightly different shade of green out from his robes. It would be a multiple-Portkey trip. These were hardly Ministry-authorized Portkeys, and such measures were to make them as difficult as possible to trace.

Two more jumps—this time they landed on a desolate, snow-covered hill. Draco had no idea where they were. Master Snape brought out the next Portkey, but instead of offering the other end, curled his fingers over it and turned his dark eyes on Draco. He did not need to incant _Legilimens_ aloud to break into Draco's mind, and Draco still felt far too rattled to properly defend himself. His mental barriers were ripped apart as easily as parchment soaked in water.

He felt a fissure of fear; he'd be punished for his failure, of course, but surely that was for the Dark Lord to decide? Or was Draco so unimportant his fate was put in the hands of the man before him, whose eyes still flashed with rage?

Finally, Master Snape spoke, his dispassionate voice at odds with his expression. "Naturally you wonder if the Dark Lord intends to kill you. It is difficult to say; he has possibly not yet decided himself yet. Your actions have put me in a tenuous position, Draco. Did you never think what should happen if you were to fail?"

"Of course I did! I've been thinking of nothing else! He sent a message… he'll kill my whole family."

Master Snape sneered. "Hardly. Why should he kill your mother? A skilled politician, socially connected, and untainted by a physical Mark, she is much more useful alive. Your father languishes in Azkaban and would forsake you in a moment at the Dark Lord's command. No, Draco. Only a child would believe such a threat. Your failure endangers you and _me_."

"You?" Draco gasped, mind reeling. His mother was never in danger? But surely Master Snape knew how worried Draco had been for his mother, the sleep he'd lost when, as plan after plan failed, he had nightmare after nightmare over what could happen to her.

"I swore an Unbreakable Vow to aid you and protect you from harm. Not to do so would kill me as effectively as an _Avada Kedavra_. And now, as you go—rightfully—to face your punishment, I nevertheless am sworn to aid you or die."

"And helping me will be against our Lord's wishes," Draco said, finally understanding. He bowed his head. "I'm sorry, Master Snape."

"Do not waste my time with useless apologies. Here." Master Snape removed a small silver ring from his robes' inside pocket and held it up. There was a single small emerald set on it, which caught the light. "Give me your hand."

He slid the ring onto the first finger of Draco's left hand, the emerald facing towards his palm. "A true Slytherin always keeps his options open, Draco. You will complete the last two Portkey jumps with me and present yourself to the Dark Lord. Perhaps he will be merciful. If he is not, you may accept your punishment as your due, or… you may use this Portkey."

Draco stared. "I don't understand."

Master Snape looked impatient. "To use such a Portkey means to defy our Lord. I will not force you to take such action, not in these times. And perhaps if you inform the Dark Lord of its existence you could escape his wrath by turning it onto me. Yet I made an oath to aid you. This is the most I can do."

Draco stared at the metal. It looked so innocuous, as most Portkeys did. "Where will—would—where would it take me?"

For the first time in Draco's memory the other man hesitated. "It will take you someplace as safe as anywhere in these times. And to someone who will listen to you. Someone…" Snape grimaced, "…trustworthy. To activate it, press your thumb to the stone and say, 'I refuse.' It will at least be something you won't accidentally say." He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but instead closed his mouth in a severe line and extended the fabric Portkey. Draco took it, the ring feeling cold on his skin even as they were jerked away. He'd accepted it to fulfill the other man's oath, of course. Draco Malfoy had too much honour and pride to run away from his just punishment. And he would _never_ defy his Lord.

When at length they appeared in the Dark Lord's council room, Draco was so unsettled by the repeated Portkeys he was unable to land on his feet. Master Snape jerked him upright again and strode forward, robes billowing around him, as Draco stumbled behind. There were perhaps ten other Death Eaters in the room, and they backed away from the pair, clearing a path to the dark throne.

Five feet away from the throne, Master Snape dropped to his knees, and Draco hastily did the same. "My Lord," they both said.

"Severus, you may approach." Their Lord's voice was a sibilant hiss. Master Snape crawled forward and kissed the hem of their master's robes. "Malfoy." Draco inched forward, dearly hoping he wouldn't stumble or somehow foul this up too. "Not so confident now," the Dark Lord mused. "Look at me."

Draco reluctantly did so, knowing the Dark Lord would see his shame. For even if his Occlumency skills were a match for the Dark Lord (which of course they were not), he would never hide anything from his master. Draco was faintly aware of his aunt, Bellatrix, standing in the shadows behind the throne, attentive to their Lord's needs.

The events of the day flashed before his eyes again, what might have been called a smile curling onto the Dark Lord's face as he saw his old adversary alone and weak. After an age in which Draco felt as though his every weakness had been laid bare, the Dark Lord stepped back, saying simply, "I am displeased." He brought up his wand casually, almost lazily. "_Crucio_." A scream tore out of Draco and he collapsed to the floor as fire flew down his veins. An unidentifiable amount of time later it was over and Draco was gasping on the floor. The Dark Lord's voice was little above a whisper. "I had hoped for great things from the son of one of my most faithful servants… if not always the most competent. Now I confess myself… disappointed. Yaxley, Goyle… escort him to cell eighteen while I consider his fate. _Accio_." Draco's wand flew into his Lord's hand, who pocketed it before turning away.

Draco felt rather than saw two Death Eaters approach him from behind and was roughly dragged away from the council room, to the twisting corridors leading to the dungeons of the Dark Lord. He caught a last glimpse of Master Snape's face, which was devoid of emotion, before the room disappeared from sight. There were many turns Draco couldn't keep track of, some stairs, going deeper… and at length he was thrown into the cell.

It was a small square, with a slot in the door for a food tray, and chains securely hooked to the walls. At least he wasn't chained, he thought, but it was a small comfort. He didn't even look at the ring on his finger. It meant nothing. He would be strong and take his punishment, whatever _Crucios_ or other torture he deserved. Still, he felt jittery, unsettled. As he forced himself to an uneasy sleep, a final thought stole across him: _Dumbledore is dead; everything has changed_.

He dreamed, and even as he stepped into the dream he knew it was also memory. _It was a gr__e__y room, wide_ _and mostly empty, with a high, vaulted ceiling. There were rows of cages along one wall, a rabbit in each. Draco unlocked one cage and levitated its rabbit out. It was white with black spots on its ears. Then he said levelly, "Imperio." He practiced making the animal do all sorts of amusing things, his__ favourite__ being when the rabbit danced a little jig, ears bouncing. It wasn't a difficult curse at all, really. Eventually growing bored, he thought perhaps he could begin practice on the next curse. He'd received a message that by summer__'__s end, he needed competence in all three. So he'd eyed the rabbit a little, but then thought that there was certainly plenty of time left. A flick of his wand sent the animal back into its cage_. In his sleep, Draco shivered. When he opened his eyes there was only darkness, so he closed them again but remained awake. He didn't want to think about the rabbits, or the previous summer, or most of the past year, really.

But there was nothing to do _but_ think. The room remained dark and quiet; no one came to check on him, to bring him food or torture or release. Draco measured off the cell—it was nine paces by eight. He counted off hours but eventually lost count. Sometimes he slept but the dreams always returned. He only knew he was dreaming because he wasn't thirsty in his dreams. And soon he avoided the back right corner as well; they hadn't even deigned to give him a pail, and there was nothing else to be done. That somehow humiliated Draco more than being imprisoned.

_Draco leveled his wand at a rabbit and said, "Crucio." It was a brown rabbit this time, with ears that flopped down. The curse was sound but he released it almost immediately, startled when the rabbit screamed. It was high-pitched and utterly terrified, when he'd never considered the creatures as being able to feel pain before. He'd been grateful for the silencing charms on the room; he was embarrassed by his failure. And perhaps more important in a way: he had no intention of listening to the sound again._

Draco thought that perhaps a day or more had passed. He imagined _Wanted!_ posters with his name and picture being distributed, Aurors trading information on his whereabouts. Perhaps the Seventh Years had already been initiated; it had been Draco's intent to be among them, honoured by the Dark Lord a year before his peers. Maybe not though—it was only that morning he himself was standing in the Slytherin common room, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, feeling a kind of breathless excitement that his plan was so close to fruition, he could almost _taste_ it. And now he would never see Hogwarts again, until the day it fell. If he was allowed to live.

He'd imagined it countless times, the Dark Lord leading them all into the Chamber of Secrets; he'd always pictured a grander, more pure version of the great hall for some reason. He'd imagined faceless blood traitors and mudbloods cowering in terror as they awaited judgment and execution. He'd imagined Granger in particular kneeling at his feet, sobbing and kissing his robes in supplication. In his imagination, he'd stomped on one slender outstretched hand and dragged her by that obnoxious hair before his Lord. _I beg of you, my Lord… kill this one slowly. And make the Weasel watch_. He'd mused that he might even be given the honor of killing the mudbloods and blood traitors in his year.

_Even after putting silencing charms on the rabbit, the Cruciatus continued to give him trouble. He could no longer hear the terrible squeals, but he could still see—had to see—the animal twitching and spasming as pain ripped away control of any kind. After a time the jerking body stilled, and Draco had to abruptly conjure a pail to vomit into. He vanished the pail when he was done, wondering why that had happened, and checked his robes to make sure they were clean. After that he pictured Potter's face while casting the spell—focused on that arrogant, defiant, smirking smile. How he longed to wipe that face of any happiness; despite the lectures about controlling his temper, he felt he restrained himself rather well… it was just that Potter was so infuriating…._

Potter. Malfoy had imagined often enough the look on the other boy's face upon learning of Dumbledore's death. But this was the first time he'd thought of the Prat-Who-Lived since that day. _Hope he's broken up completely_, Draco thought, a malicious smile curving across his tired face. _Hope he's a right mess. Hope all the mudbloods are scrambling to get out of England. They won't get far. Not for long_. That he was sure of, whether Draco would get to step over the broken stones of Hogwarts with his Lord or not.

Then Draco heard footsteps.

At first he thought they were his imagination, but then he realized that he ached and smelled and his throat burned, so it was probably real. He thought about lounging against a cell wall like he hadn't a care in the world—_oh, this was meant to be unpleasant?_—but fortunately realized in time how ludicrous that would be. Besides, he should be respectful, at least. He was here for a reason. For failing his Lord. So he slowly stood, and waited behind the bars. He wondered if they'd brought water.

It was Yaxley and Goyle again. They smirked at him. Draco made his face expressionless, and they actually looked a little disappointed, the idiots. What did they expect to find, a broken man? Did they truly not realize the strength and quality of Malfoy blood? Yaxley waved his wand and Draco's hands were tightly bound behind his back. The cell door swung open and Goyle grunted, "Come along then."

The council room was much more crowded now, Death Eaters lined along each wall. Draco knew many of them, but their faces were concealed by their masks and hoods. The Dark Lord's head was bare and gleaming, his eyes glowing red. He was terrifying and awesome to behold. Draco's guards had to pull him through the crowd to a small clearing in the room's center. There was another woman there, kneeling on the floor—a muggle woman, judging by her odd clothing. Her face was very red and every few seconds she sobbed loudly. She brightened the tiniest amount when she saw Draco, and he could only assume that she believed him to be an ally. Stupid bitch. He was pushed to a place beside her.

And then there was a sudden silence mingled with breathless anticipation, as the Dark Lord rose to speak. "My friends. Many among you have wondered when we would bring our power to bear upon this country. You have not spoken of it, but you have wondered. I have seen your thoughts… Yes… you wonder when the blood of the mudbloods will flow in the street gutters where it belongs, when the ring of their screams will echo in your ears. I tell you now; Dumbledore is dead and buried—_it is time!_"

The muggle cried even harder, but the sound was drowned out as the Death Eaters roared their approval. The Dark Lord continued, "Do not worry about Harry Potter. Soon enough you all will have your chances to make him scream. Without the Old Fool guiding his steps he shall be as easy prey as the filthy muggle now cowering before you." Another cheer.

Draco tensed as the crowd turned its attention to him. Did they already know of the part he'd played this past year? Did they know of his failure? Knowing his circumstances were shared with a mudblood, worth less than the grime of the dungeons on his robe, was humiliating enough, but would the muggle ever stop its useless sniveling? Draco's hands were suddenly free, and he struggled to keep his face impassive. The crowd quieted and Draco could feel their stares. Yaxley returned Draco's wand, and it felt warm and welcome against his palm. The Dark Lord gestured to the mudblood and spoke two words. "Kill it."

Draco raised his wand. He felt nothing for the creature before him, save disgust. He should be in the shadows with the others now. But his arm trembled, betraying him, and though he wanted more than _anything_ to incant the curse, the words somehow disappeared inside his throat. _Dumbledore's eyes went wide and blank and he fell backward. The rabbit howled_. The Death Eaters murmured, their words indistinct.

"You can't do it," said Draco's Lord, his tone inscrutable. Draco couldn't answer. His wand still pointed towards the mudblood, but his hand was shaking very badly now. What was wrong with him? How could this be happening? The Dark Lord said quietly, "Severus?" and a Death Eater at the front of the circle stepped forward. Draco could recognize his teacher's smooth voice in the cool, "_Avada Kedavra_." The mudblood screamed once and slumped forward. Again Draco had failed a test.

His wand was snatched away again, and though no chains appeared, Draco's fingers suddenly fused together. Something hard was digging into his thumb, but he couldn't quite register it as red eyes bored into his grey ones. "It seems," the Dark Lord purred, "that young Malfoy hasn't the will to be one of us. How disappointing this ancient House has been to me. The father with no brains, the son with no will." More murmuring around the room, and Draco was angry and frightened and ashamed all at once. The dead mudblood seemed to be staring at him, but of course that was ridiculous; its eyes were open, but sightless. Draco felt transfixed by the sight, and was jolted into awareness by a powerful cutting curse, followed by the _Cruciatus_. He was slammed into the floor, his joints twisted, flesh burnt and ripped away, the dark room swaying above him. And the _Cruciatus_. Again and again, always stopping just before he could sink into blissful darkness.

It seemed to last forever, and when the air grew heavy and quiet, and the Dark Lord raised his wand again, Draco understood with every fiber of his being that the Killing Curse would be next, that he would die here, gasping, sprawled on the slick black stone, without glory or honour or in any way befitting his status. Utterly without conscious thought, he blurted, "I refuse!" and got a split-second view of actual emotion—surprise, no less—on the Dark Lord's face before he was swept away.

The Portkey sent him tumbling a second later onto a worn wood floor, and now he could feel the cuts across his body much more sharply. Reeling at both the day's events and his own actions, Draco was only faintly aware of a shocked voice saying, "Mr. Malfoy?" before he fell into unconsciousness.


	2. Waking Up

Neither Draco Malfoy nor the universe he inhabits belong to me.

2 - Waking Up

_When Silas woketh, it was like unto clawing one's way up from the depths of a deep-dug well. His limbs layeth heavily and strangely, as not his own. Bonds were setteth over him and the healers cast fearful glances. They spake not to him, even unto his despairing cries._

_The Auror did come and sayeth, "Why didst thou slay them?"_

_And Silas crieth, "What hath I done? Where art we? Woe upon such an awakening!"_

--from "_Thy Cursed Talysmann: A Wizarding Mysterey_" (First published 1694)

For a moment when he woke Draco was confused; then it all came rushing back. First he'd failed the Dark Lord—twice!—then defied him. Whatever had possessed him? But in his heart, Draco knew—knew that truly as he believed in the Dark Lord's vision, he found personal survival more important than an ideological crusade. He was as good as dead anyway, he knew. But the important question at hand was, where was he now? Where had Master Snape sent him?

He was in a small room, with one window a bit too high to see out of properly from the bed. The bedposts appeared to be handmade, and there was a nondescript wardrobe in one corner. The linens were coarse but clean, and there was an (empty) wood chair a few feet from the bed, his school robes neatly folded over it. There seemed to be little in the way of comfort, but there were soft bandages on his wounds, and he had the deceptively healthy feeling that sometimes accompanied healing potions.

Just as Draco was deliberating whether it would be more advantageous to stay in the bed or to explore his surroundings more thoroughly, the door opened and he reflexively exclaimed, "You!" He would never have expected it, but there in the doorway was his third-year Defense teacher, the werewolf!

It was carrying a small steaming cup and said with a smile, "Oh good, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

Draco turned his head away, his head swimming with confused thoughts. He couldn't possibly talk to a known werewolf! It was appalling enough he'd had to deal with it for a whole school year. The werewolf said in a gentle tone, like Draco didn't know all about its true nature, "You seem as surprised to see me as I was to see you last night. I admit I had no idea what to do when you appeared, by Portkey I think…?" Draco didn't respond. "It certainly raised a number of questions," the wolf continued, sipping whatever was in its teacup. Blood, maybe. "But I find myself unwilling to go to the Ministry just yet. There is a warrant for you arrest, of course." Draco looked at the wolf sharply. He'd expected that, yet…. It called itself Lupin, he remembered. Remus Lupin.

"I've never trusted blindly in the Ministry, and our elected officials,"—this with a dry tone—"have been led astray before. Very often, in fact. And now their drive to see justice done is swinging to the other extreme. To prove something to the public, I fear you would be in Azkaban or Kissed before you could say one thing about what really happened. I can at least promise that I'll listen."

What game was this? What was the werewolf up to? Draco knew perfectly well that it was one of the Old Fool's little pets, remembered how it fawned over Potter all third year. And Draco had never hidden his disdain for the shabby teacher. Perhaps on some level he'd sensed what it was. Now it was—what? Trying to make Draco trust it? Why? For information, perhaps? Yet… Master Snape had sent Draco here. Draco was healing, and in this small bright room instead of a Ministry cell. He didn't want to talk to it, but didn't see any other options yet. He needed more information, so… "This is your house, then?" Draco ventured, still not looking at the other.

"Yes." Lupin took another sip.

"Does anyone else live here?"

"No." So Draco _would_ have to talk to it, or to no one. Lupin used one hand to pick up Draco's robes, which Draco saw had been mended and cleaned of dirt and blood, placing them at the foot of the bed before sitting. "May I call you Draco?"

"No."

"Mr. Malfoy then… tell me what happened?"

Although he hardly wanted to be addressed by his given name, Draco still felt a small pang at hearing his family name. His father's name. What a disgrace he'd become; he'd be struck from the family tapestry, his name forever taboo. It would have to be said at some point, so he admitted, "I failed to complete my mission. And I ran away from my due punishment. I was weak."

"Could you be more specific?" When Draco didn't respond, ashamed at how quickly he'd given up an answer at all, Lupin wrapped his hands around his cup and leaned forward. "Being unable to kill in cold blood does not make a man weak, just as being able to do so does not make him strong."

"And what would you know?" Draco reflexively snarled.

"If nothing else, I lived through Voldemort's first rise. Many of my own classmates were killers before they died, on both sides of the war. So many funerals every day, so many bodies never found." The wolf seemed lost in thought for a moment, then shook himself and Draco, still looking at his hands on the faded blanket, could feel his gaze. "They were dark times that nevertheless taught everyone to live through them a great deal about what makes a man of quality.

"Those times are starting again. Albus—" the wolf's voice trembled over this name in a way it had not over the Dark Lord's—"Albus was laid to rest only yesterday, and last night the attacks began. Thirty people are dead already, according to this morning's _Prophet_, and another forty unaccounted for." The mudblood killed last night would be one of the missing, then. The body might be dumped with the rubbish somewhere, or might be disposed of at the stronghold, its fate permanently shrouded in mystery.

The werewolf waited a beat, as though expecting Draco to speak. When he did not, the wolf sighed and said, "Let me tell you what I know. I know last summer you were given the task of murdering the Headmaster." _They hadn't called it murder_, Draco thought. "You accepted eagerly. You made various attempts throughout the school year, never quite succeeding. Finally, you managed to bring Death Eaters, Fenris Greyback among them, into the school and sent up the Dark Mark. But for whatever reason, when it came right down to the act itself, you weren't a killer. Severus incanted the curse and you left with him, the others covering your escape."

Draco still felt unsettled to hear the names of such powerful wizards used so casually; Albus, Severus, even that of the Dark Lord. How dare it speak of Draco's master with so little respect? Draco bit back a retort and said dully, "You know more than I thought." He didn't know where the wolf came by his information, but it was all more than he could deal with at the moment.

Draco stifled a yawn, and Lupin noticed. "More talk can wait. Your body is still recovering. If you need me, I'll be just outside." He got up slowly and closed the door behind him. Draco made an effort to organize his thoughts, but fell asleep almost instantly.

When he woke again a few hours later, Draco wished the strange conversation had been a dream, but he knew it wasn't. He squinted against the light that fell from the window neatly across his face and deduced with some irritability that it was what woke him. No sooner had he finished the thought than a faded blue cloth appeared from nowhere over the window, dimming the room. Draco was accustomed to the little surprises a magical household often offered, but a command which required mere thought and not speech as well… that was a fair bit of magic.

Now that he was more awake, Draco was acutely aware of his vulnerable position. His wand was gone, the Ministry would arrest him, his peers would hunt him down and execute him, and he was in the home of a werewolf. He surely had to leave, but where could he go? He didn't even know when the next full moon was, though he seemed to remember his last night at Hogwarts before… everything, the moon was small in the night sky. He didn't recall whether it was waxing or waning, though. He ought to have a few weeks at least.

Just then, Draco's stomach growled loudly. He was about to get up when a small bed-tray with a bowl of watery-looking soup appeared. Draco took a careful sip and immediately made a face; it practically _was_ water. He doubted he'd ever tasted something so bland his entire life. He pushed it aside and gingerly stood up. Some remnants of his punishment lingered, but by and large he was on the mend. Draco's hand brushed his school robes, and he considered changing into them, but they seemed to belong to someone much younger. The overlarge nightshirt he was wearing seemed enough and in any case there was no one here worth bothering about his appearance for.

The door swung of its own accord when he reached it, and Draco eyed the handle he'd been about to reach for with some suspicion—this anticipation of his needs was becoming rather unnerving. But he pushed his unease aside and look a slow look around. It quickly became apparent that he was in a mere cottage, not a house as he'd first supposed. There were two doors to his right. The first was the toilet, the door slightly ajar. The other door was closed.

In front of him was a large room with no dividing walls. The left side was a kitchen area, including a small table with three wood chairs, and on the right was a simple sitting-room of sorts, with a few armchairs, a sofa, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, completely full. Save a few rugs on the floor, there was no decoration of any kind. The building's front door was between the two sides. And Lupin was nowhere in sight.

Draco walked down to the closed door on his right. He hesitated over how to address the werewolf, and in the end decided to simply knock. There was no answer. Perhaps the werewolf was outside—perhaps it was gone to fetch the Ministry—even as Draco's fingers closed over the handle, the front door opened, and Draco instinctively scanned his surroundings for anything he might use as a weapon, but saw nothing.

It was Lupin, who said only, "I'm sorry—I thought I could be back before you woke."

"Where were you?"

"I was strengthening the wards," Lupin said, looking pensive. "Or at least, trying to. I've set them to keep out anyone bearing a Dark Mark. That's my office, by the way. And while I realize I have little to offer you here, I must ask you not to enter it."

Draco's hand jerked away from the doorknob. He'd nearly forgotten about it. Now, obviously, he'd go inside the room the first chance he got. Stupid Gryffindor teacher. "How do you know _I _don't have the Mark?" he challenged.

Lupin raised his eyebrows. "I looked when I treated your injuries. As I was saying, the wards ought to keep out most Death Eaters. Some more powerful ones or those… _familiar_ with my wards could undoubtedly break them, though." He sighed. "You did not come here of your own accord; could not, in fact. I can guess who sent you here. It's the _why_ I don't understand. Can you guess, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco hedged, "Who do you think sent me?"

"Severus, of course. Who else?"

"You never seemed to be friends."

Lupin looked surprised. "Oh, we weren't. He's hated me since our school days. We were in the same year. But we were—colleagues, of a sort."

Draco couldn't imagine Master Snape as a schoolboy. He'd have to get more information later. But for now…. "Master Snape said if he didn't give me a chance to escape, he'd die as well. He made an Unbreakable Vow to protect me."

"I'd heard. Perhaps it is that simple. I believe that you at least think so."

"Why else would he have sent me here?" Draco couldn't help but ask.

Lupin shrugged. "Perhaps you are part of a larger plan on his part; perhaps he is not so lost to the side of Light as we'd supposed; perhaps you are a trap for me, or the Order." Draco knew about the Order of the Phoenix, of course. His father had alternately mocked and cursed the group many times. It was Dumbledore's group, created to oppose the Dark Lord. Some members were obvious, like McGonagall, but generally the members stayed anonymous. Many were also members of the Ministry, he knew, though not in such numbers as the servants of the Dark Lord. He hadn't known Lupin was a member.

"Please, sit down."

Draco realized his legs were trembling. He didn't want to seem to be obeying Lup—the werewolf—but now that he was aware of his weakness, he could think of nothing else. Reluctantly he moved forward to the nearest armchair and sank into it. Lupin also sat in an armchair facing Draco.

"You're in the Order? Of the Phoenix?" Draco asked, trying to wrap his mind around the concept. A werewolf, fighting for the side of Light? It was laughable, but given that the Old Fool was involved, it somehow made sense.

Lupin smiled without humour. "Mr. Malfoy, _Severus_ was a member of the Order."

Draco groped for words. "He was… what, a spy? How—what….?"

Now Lupin's expression was the opposite; he wasn't quite smiling, but his eyes were amused. "Oh, he was certainly a spy. The question to ask is _who_ he was spying _for_. His information saved countless lives during Voldemort's first rise to power, my own included. He was in the Order's inner circle, and held the Headmaster's complete trust."

"The more fool him," Draco scoffed.

"A great and sublime fool," Lupin said fondly, as though remembering an old conversation. "He always _seemed_ to be many things, and was always much more than he seemed. He may have felt that his death at this time was somehow necessary, or even had an agreement with Severus regarding the Unbreakable Vow. Certainly his faith in Severus was unshakable, no matter the doubts of the rest of us. When I first heard that Severus… well, I was blinded by fury and grief. Now I wonder if Albus' death, like everything about him, was so simple as it first appeared."

That was ridiculous, Draco thought, of course Master Snape's allegiance was to the Dark Lord alone and anything that appeared otherwise was part of some ultimate plan. He was one of the Dark Lord's most trusted advisors, his chosen Potions Master, Strategist, Recruiter, Informant at Hogwarts, even the Secret Keeper for some of the Dark Lord's fortresses. But Lupin was still speaking, eyes distant as though he was thinking aloud rather than addressing Draco. "Severus knew how I would react, at least. Knew I would take you in and shelter you here. There were no spells to trace your route, but they wouldn't be needed anyway. He knows where to find me. Perhaps the Ministry will get an anonymous tip that I'm helping a fugitive. You'd be caught and I'd be executed before either of us could call for help."

Draco broke in. "I hope you've also warded against people from the Ministry then."

"Don't be foolish. Ministry workers don't share any single, identifying mark I can enchant the wards to recognize. Besides, several members of the Order work for the Ministry, and they must be able to reach me."

"So when the Ministry comes for me, you'll… what?"

"We don't know if the Ministry will come for you," Lupin pointed out. "Though if there is somewhere else you wish to go, I won't force you to stay here."

"You would let me leave?" Draco asked, incredulous.

"I would." Lupin paused. "However… forgive me for saying this… I don't believe you do have anywhere else to go."

Draco flushed and stood, staggering slightly. "Maybe I will leave!" Even as he took the first step towards the door, he realized how ridiculous he sounded. He could barely walk, he was dressed in an old nightshirt, and… Lupin was right. He could not think of a single place to go. So he stiffly turned towards the small bedroom, his posture daring Lupin to comment. But though he could feel the werewolf's gaze, the older man said nothing.

Draco flopped onto the bed, limbs trembling, but his mind unable to slow down. Was he sent here simply to trap the werewolf? He doubted it. Why would the Dark Lord or Master Snape bother, when if the wolf proved a nuisance, a Death Eater could be sent to eliminate it easily enough? No, Master Snape only sought to fulfill the Vow he'd made. But did that mean it was safe here? Should he, or indeed could he, go somewhere else? But where to? His money and influence were gone, and he could hardly go among his extended family or in Eastern Europe, where he'd traveled extensively. Yet Draco had never traveled outside of Europe, where Malfoy influence extended.

Perhaps, loathsome though the thought was, he could do some sort of work around the cottage for Lupin, and the werewolf would aid him in getting a new wand and getting out of the country. Once gone, Draco could devote himself entirely to learning the Dark Arts and overcoming his weakness. Then he could earn his way back into the ranks of the Death Eaters and come home. It would be nearly impossible, and he still doubted the wolf would willingly let him go, but he could use this time to regroup and plan his next move.

There was a knock on the bedroom door and Lupin's muffled voice said, "Supper is ready." Draco didn't answer. He had the information he needed, and had no desire to make small-talk with the beast. After a pause, Lupin said, "I'll leave the tray outside the door." There was a soft metallic clank, then footsteps walking away.

Draco lay still for a long time, staring up at the plain ceiling without really seeing it. Eventually the shadows in the room grew longer, casting vaguely threatening shapes against the walls. Draco shuddered, acutely feeling his isolation, and a few candles he hadn't previously noticed flickered to life. Draco wasn't sure if the flickering light actually helped, and the magic working in the room obligingly put the candles out.

Draco's stomach growled, and a new bowl of soup appeared, but he ignored it. He slipped out of bed and padded to the door, listening for the wolf. Everything was quiet, so Draco opened the door. The metal tray reflected up at him. He could see the werewolf slumped in the sofa, chest rising and falling evenly. Draco's nose wrinkled in disgust when it hit him that of course he'd been in the werewolf's room. But he'd rather have a room to himself, even if he had to sleep in the bed of a monster. He quietly picked up the tray and retreated back inside. One directed thought and the roast chicken and boiled potatoes warmed up nicely.

Once he started to eat, Draco realized just how hungry he was. He scraped every last bit of food from the plate before setting the tray on the floor. Feeling thoroughly wrung out, Draco eventually drifted off into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Full Moon

Neither Remus Lupin nor the universe he inhabits belong to me.

3 - Full Moon

_Nigh Full Moon_

_by Hubert Cornelius_

_Nigh full moon, you hanging globe  
__Floating light to the dark places  
__Sometimes lovely, and yet cold  
__See fright on all the upturned faces_

_Floating light to the dark places  
__Touch the denseness of the forest  
__See fright on all the upturned faces  
__when light stretches on the moors_

_Touch the denseness of the forest  
__where eyes are blinking from the shadows  
__When light stretches on the moors  
__and follows where a lone wolf goes_

_Where eyes are blinking from the shadows  
__and see this cursed and wretched creature  
__and follow where the lone wolf goes  
__as wind ruffles matted fur_

_See this cursed and wretched creature  
__most days a man but now a beast  
__As wind ruffles matted fur  
_'_til sun rises in the east_

_Most days a man but now a beast  
__and once a friend, now one can't trust  
_'_til sun rises in the east  
__you may be cruel, but come you must_

_Once a friend, now one can't trust  
__Nigh full moon, you hanging globe  
__You may be cruel, but come you must  
__Sometimes lovely, and yet cold_

--page 1, _Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature_

The next few days, Draco only left his room to use the toilet. Lupin always knocked on the door and told Draco if it was time for breakfast, lunch, tea or supper. Draco never responded. He knew he ought to be gathering intelligence, gaining the werewolf's trust somehow, anything to further along his ultimate goal, but he didn't know quite where to begin. And while he was very curious about what was happening in the rest of the world—was Potter already dead? Had Hogwarts fallen?—he didn't want to see the werewolf, and certainly didn't want to talk to it.

So he sat in the room, looking at the walls without really seeing them, thoughts going around in circles. Dumbledore, the rabbits, the Dark Lord aiming the yew wand directly between Draco's eyes.

One morning, though, instead of leaving Draco's breakfast outside the door, the wolf knocked three times and entered the room. Draco glared at it. "What are you doing?" He noticed that the wolf seemed to be wearing the same clothes as before, then realized he'd been effectively preventing the wolf from getting to its wardrobe. And the various nightshirts he'd been using all belonged to the wolf. As Draco made that realization, he had to fight back a shudder. Somehow, though, he managed to maintain a neutral expression.

"I need to speak with you," it said. "Today is the 20th."

"And?"

The werewolf gave him an unreadable look. "And so tonight is the full moon."

Draco felt like the blood in his veins had turned to ice. The full moon. How could he have forgotten? "So you're leaving?" he asked, not bothering to conceal his hopefulness.

"There's a room beneath the kitchen. I've used it before. You need not fear that I'll somehow get out. I just wanted you to know. And…." Here the werewolf seemed to falter.

"What?"

A brief hesitation, and then the wolf switched into a lecturing tone, one that Draco remembered from class third year. "You'll recall that magic is ineffective against werewolves. That's why a room to contain a werewolf can not be constructed magically or conjured into existence."

Draco hadn't really remembered that, but it made sense, so he sneered and said, "Of course."

"It then follows that silencing charms placed around the room would be useless." Lupin paused to let that sink in, before clarifying, "You will be able to hear the wolf, quite clearly. And as the wolf will be able to smell you, I fear it will be even more violent than usual."

Draco shivered at the thought, but then wondered, "If the wolf is truly subdued by Wolfsbane, why would that be?"

"You're starting with an assumption," the wolf chided. "I don't have access to the Wolfsbane potion. In the past when I was provided with it, it was brewed by Severus, which is hardly an option now." Draco must have paled, because the werewolf added, "The room will hold me. Trust in that, even if it doesn't sound so tonight. I used it before the invention of Wolfsbane, and afterwards on moons like this one, when I didn't have access to the potion. It will be all right. I just wanted you to know what was happening."

"Can I have your wand?"

"No, I'm afraid not." The wolf looked sympathetic but firm.

"You don't trust me," Draco accused. Merlin, the very idea of facing a werewolf with no wand….

"Well, there is that, but that's not the only reason. I seal the room's door from the inside, so I need it. And I doubt you could use my wand in any case. I truly am sorry." The words sounded sincere, but Draco didn't believe them.

The wolf turned to leave. In the room's doorway he paused again and said, "I realize it's been a difficult few weeks for you. However, I must remind you that you can't spend the rest of your life in that room. Waiting around will not help you in the long run. Consider that." He closed the door behind him. Draco wished he had something to throw at it.

With that beginning, the day could not be anything but interminable. A dozen times and more Draco stood, resolving to run somewhere, anywhere away from here. Each time as he stepped towards the door, he faltered. If he left now, he faced the prospect of being outside when the moon rose. How could he even think of leaving? And yet, how could he possibly stay?

It went without saying that he couldn't eat anything. The very idea made him ill. He'd enjoyed frightening stories of muggles and other monsters as a child and a hundred such tales now went through his mind. He remembered all too clearly the illustrations of the grotesque beast lunging forward….

He knew he'd get no sleep this night, so he tried to nap during the day. But his sleep was fitful, and he woke with a start at every small noise. He stared at the clock on the wall, mesmerized by the slow yet constant progression of the second hand, the minute hand, the hours. With a thought the faded cloth block out the midday sun, and Draco huddled under the blanket, squeezing his eyes closed. His own heartbeat felt unnaturally loud. "I might die tonight," he thought, and was surprised at his own calm.

After waking from a particularly vivid nightmare—he'd been able to see the brown-red stains on the werewolf's claws—he gave up on sleep entirely. He imagined what he would say to his mother if he could see her one last time. Much of the conversation featured him pleading for forgiveness, and her melting and giving him the smile that only he received, saying, "My Dragon, I will always forgive you. Come home and together we shall make a Death Eater out of you."

At length, wanting to know if dusk was imminent outweighed his fear of finding that it was, so Draco glanced at the window. The cloth covering it window obligingly rolled away and Draco looked out. But it was the wrong angle to see the moon and he certainly wasn't going out into the main room. So he just watched the sky turn darker with infinite slowness; the blanket twisted under his clenched fingers. Then the werewolf screamed.

Maybe it had been groaning and crying before, but to Draco the sound was sudden, making his pulse thrum faster and faster until he gasped for air. And once the screaming started, it kept on and on and on, and the worst of it was that it sounded human still. Draco could hear an echo of his own screams under the _Cruciatus_.

Then the tone of the screams shifted—perhaps he'd only imagined it but it was almost dark now and there was a monster down there. But even the animalistic quality to the cries didn't help because the scream—the howl—it was like the rabbits and no matter how many times he cast _Silencio_ he could still hear it, still see the rabbit writhing and jerking for his pleasure.

Once the werewolf stopped shrieking its pain the sounds turned angry. Savage, wild, the barbaric howls were completely unlike the histories and programmes on Draco's Wizarding Wireless. Draco swiped at his eyes and thought about hiding under the bed. But the bed would not protect him from teeth or claws. There was nowhere to go, not now.

And then the muffled thumping began, as the wolf hurled itself against the walls of its prison again and again. Each time sounded impossibly close and Draco held his breath—was it getting closer? Slowly he released the breath and drew another shuddering one, staring at the door.

And on and on went the night, as long as Draco had ever lived. The shrieks of rage, of pain, of bloodlust, all washed over him and melted into each other. He tried counting to himself, manually ticking off each second, but as he was about to whisper, "nine," the screaming abruptly stopped. Everything was silent, time balanced on the edge of a knife, the sky framed by the window inky and fathomless.

Draco began to pronounce, "ten," and as he did the air split with a savage howl directly beneath him. He could hear the crack as the animal's head hit the floor just below and in that moment lost control of his bladder, warm liquid gathering in the sheets. He'd never been so ashamed, not even when he was brought before the Dark Lord in disgrace, and did not dare leave the bed even now as his urine turned the sheets cold and sticky. As the pounding and howls continued, Draco whispered over and over, "Why why why why why—" _Why did you send me here?_ But the door held, and the wolf did not break through.

When the pounding stopped the snarling continued, but several seconds now passed between each howl, as though the wolf had burnt off its own rage. Something seemed very significant to Draco, though he couldn't have named what, when he recognized a broken sound as distinctly human; not the product of canine vocal chords, at least.

He hadn't even noticed the sky growing lighter, but now the meaning of the pale grey morning registered—the moon was passed and he was as safe as he had ever been in this hovel. Nevertheless, it was several minutes of steady breathing before he could let go of the blanket and move his still-trembling legs. He showered until the water turned cold, relishing the way his shame was pounded away. He thought of nothing, washed away the cold sweat. He'd survived….

When he emerged _it_ was nowhere in sight. One of the rugs on the floor was pushed to the side, revealing a closed trapdoor. Hungry now, Draco wandered into the kitchen and grabbed some pumpkin juice and a muffin, before retreating to his room. Without his wand he had no way to clean the soiled sheets, so he sat on the chair and ate slowly, savouring each bite.

He was still on edge, jumping at every little sound, so it was not surprising that he heard the trapdoor creak open an hour or so later. Draco braced himself, waiting for the knock on the door that he eventually realized wasn't coming.

He wanted to go outside. It wouldn't be remotely safe and he didn't want to go past _it_—yet he stared out the little window and wanted anyway. He wanted to fly, wanted to cut through the light drizzle until he couldn't feel it. There was something for facing one's fears, he thought, because although he was still acutely conscious of his own frailty, at the same time he felt bursting with life. Fear might cripple him, but it could not kill him.

Put like that, it sounded a little silly, but Draco could not deny the thrill coursing through him. It was a little like the adrenaline high he felt after making a spectacular dive on his Nimbus 2001. Not that he ever wanted to spend such a night again. It was of the utmost importance that he find a way out of this situation before the next full moon (preferably sooner).

Unlike some people—Pansy, for one—Draco had never made a habit of skipping meals, not even when he had Quidditch-related pre-game nerves. After not eating at all yesterday, the muffin didn't come even close to filling his stomach. The food here was hardly outstanding, yet Draco found himself looking forward to lunch. But for the first time since his arrival, lunch didn't come. It irritated him—after endangering and terrorizing him all night, it seemed like the least the wolf could do would be to get lunch ready on time. On any other day, Draco would have waited at least a few hours, but not today. So, with some trepidation, Draco opened the door.

As the main room had no dividing walls, Draco saw Lupin right away. The werewolf was sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the room near the sink. He was shirtless, and his entire upper body was covered with wicked-looking slashes. Lupin held a scrap of cloth and slowly wiped away the blood from one of the claw marks. More blood welled up immediately in the cloth's wake, and Lupin patiently folded the cloth over and ran a clean side of it over the wound again.

Each movement was slow and gentle and deliberate, almost hypnotizing. Draco stood frozen in the doorway, unable to look away. Lupin's face was drawn and pale, and as he touched the wound a pained grimace would pass over his features. He clearly hadn't heard the door open, and Draco didn't know how to react to the other's pain.

Should he ignore it and get himself lunch? But to do so he'd need to practically walk over the injured man—the injured werewolf, he reminded himself, not a man. But the thought was uneasy. None of the childhood stories he'd recalled the day before ever mentioned the werewolf hurting itself. He could almost believe there was something different about this full moon, something out of the ordinary. That usually the werewolf did not emerge so battered.

But the patient, even strokes of the bloody cloth, the other cloths on the floor, already used or ready to be used; they all revealed that this was the norm. That every month, Lupin did—this—to himself.

Draco backed into the bedroom as quietly as he could and eased the door closed. The thrill of the morning and of being alive seemed muted now, his hunger temporarily forgotten. Those ugly scrapes, skin hanging off the edges; it brought home the violence of the beast. If it had broken out, the damage it could have done to Draco's body…. But he couldn't seem to muster up righteous anger about the danger he'd been in.

To a certain extent he thought of the wounds and imagined how nearly it had happened to him. But more than that, his mind kept returning to the expression on the werewolf's face, the one that said the pain and blood-soaked cloths were old, familiar rituals.

Almost unconsciously, Draco started pacing around the small room. He didn't quite know the direction his thoughts were going, just that he felt unsettled and uncomfortable. He scowled when he happened to glance up and unexpectedly bright light from the window hit his eyes. No sooner did he squint against the glare, though, than the faded cloth fell across the window.

Draco turned at the wall to pace in the other direction when it hit him and he almost stumbled: the charms to the room were designed for a convalescent, for someone in bed, weak and unable to muster the energy to cast charms to cover the window. For someone leaning on a makeshift cane, perhaps, and without a free hand to open the door. For someone unable to go to the kitchen and make food but who nevertheless needed nourishing food that was easy on the stomach. Bland soup, for instance.

Draco didn't know whether the werewolf himself had cast the charms on the room or had someone else do it, but either way it was clearly made with mornings like this one in mind. His stomach suddenly growled, reminding Draco why he'd opened the door in the first place. He told himself that the wolf didn't expect him to starve, surely, and likely wouldn't even remark on Draco making himself something to eat.

As he walked towards the door again, though, Draco wondered if the werewolf would demand its room back. He was surprised to realize that if the wolf did ask, he didn't know what his answer would be.

This time when he opened the door, Draco made no effort to be quiet. So as he came into the kitchen Lupin put the cloth down and pushed the cloths into a pile to the side, clearing a path for Draco. He was undoubtedly still in pain, but his usual expression of reserved calm settled onto his face, and he said neutrally, "Good afternoon."

Draco very nearly blurted, "How can you say that? You look horrible!" but instead made a noise in his throat that Lupin could take as agreement if he wanted. "Getting something to eat," he added unnecessarily as he opened a cupboard. Strange to be so near an injured person and not inquire after their health—but Lupin knew that Draco hated him so it would be odd if Draco was polite….

"Yes, of course, help yourself," Lupin said, and Draco darted a quick look to make sure the other man—no! werewolf!—wasn't being sarcastic. But Lupin's expression was sincere, and to Draco's surprise, there was even a hint of approval in the steady gaze.

Given the state Lupin was in, it seemed very odd, so Draco felt justified in asking, "What are you smiling about?"

Lupin shook his head slightly. "Nothing really. Just—I'm rather impressed. Sharing a building with a transformed werewolf is no easy task. Few people would be as composed as you the next day."

Draco didn't feel composed at all. He felt awkward and uncomfortable and almost obscenely healthy next to the man on the floor. He glanced at the thick sandwich he'd assembled and without thinking offered, "Want me to make you one?"

Surprise flickered in Lupin's eyes for a moment, so quickly Draco might have imagined it. "No, but thank you."

Draco retreated towards his room, but paused before the open door. "This—this is normal?" he asked, not quite sure what he meant by "this."

Lupin seemed to understand him though. "For a werewolf without access to the Wolfsbane potion, this is indeed normal." Some of the vague turmoil Draco was feeling must have shown on his face, because Lupin added, "The goal of the werewolf is to destroy, as violently as possible. In the absence of another living creature, it will in its rage harm itself."

Draco managed a jerky nod and went into his room. As he closed the door, he heard Lupin say, "You might want to stay in there in case someone from the Order comes to check on me. But I hope you will come out here for dinner tonight. I will be better then, I assure you." Draco doubted the latter very much.

But as he bit into his sandwich, he found himself considering Lupin's offer. Could he sit down to dinner with a known werewolf? Maybe… maybe he could.

* * *

I use this website to get the dates of the 1997 full moons: http://aa (dot) usno (dot) navy (dot) mil (slash) data (slash) docs (slash) MoonPhase (dot) html  
The poem at the beginning of this chapter is a kind of formal poem called a pantoum. 


	4. The Book on the Highest Shelf

Neither Lily Potter nor the universe she inhabited belong to me.

4 - The Book on the Highest Shelf

_Lana Hopewell, 24, of Haltwhistle, died 15 January, 1944. She was born 30 April, 1919 in Haltwhistle and was a Prefect for Hufflepuff while at Hogwarts. While other classmates married or went on to traditional careers, Hopewell felt it was her calling to educate Britain's werewolves. She made a passionate argument in a guest column for this very paper asserting that left illiterate and uneducated, werewolves would always pose a threat to mainstream Wizarding culture. It was her publicly-sworn personal crusade to someday see a werewolf elected to the Wizengamot. _

_She was hampered in her quest by the wariness of the very werewolves she sought to help. Frustrated by her lack of progress and much to the dismay of friends and family, she announced last month that she would subject herself to the Bite and join the pack as a full member. However, after narrowly avoiding bleeding to death, the Bite became infected, and as St. Mungo's does not treat known werewolves, she died a few days later._

_Few could find fault with Hopewell's wide-eyed idealism. But it is the opinion of this page that her quest was doomed from the start. Her persistence in treating werewolves as people sprang from her gentle and loving spirit, but it is a well-known fact that werewolves are not people and are in fact impossible to educate. In the end, not only did she not help anyone, she lost her own life._

_While we extend our sympathies to the Hopewell family, we hope that impressionable young witches will take a lesson from this tragedy._

--Editorial, from the archives of_ The Daily Prophet_

Around 3:00 that afternoon, Draco heard a door open and a feminine voice call, "Remus?"

Lupin's voice was quieter, but Draco could still hear the answering, "Dora."

"What are you doing out of bed?" "Dora" exclaimed. "Here, let me help you."

Draco couldn't hear Lupin's response, but presumably he'd made some kind of excuse, because Dora said, "At least lie down on the sofa. Here, I'll take care of those."

Although his heart was still hammering, Draco inched closer to the door and pressed his ear against it. He wondered who Dora was. The voice sounded too young to be Lupin's mother… so his sister, perhaps? Her voice was a little quieter now, but he could still hear her clearly.

"I would have come sooner, Remus, but it's been an absolute madhouse at work."

Lupin's response was indistinct.

"I know, but I still wanted to be here. No matter that I'd be completely useless to you….

"No, I would be. I got the results back from the _Animagus_ testing, and it was negative. And I'm hopeless at potions; I only got three steps into Wolfsbane before I bollixed it up." She was crying; Draco could hear it in her voice. "I _hate_ seeing you in such pain and not being able to help."

"You do help," Lupin assured her, though his voice sounded awfully weak to Draco, who was nearly leaning against the door now. "Please, don't torture yourself like this. I don't need you to be an _Animagus_ or a potions Master; I just need you to be you. Now tell me what's been happening, what I can't read in the _Prophet_."

A pause, then, "The main thing is that the border has been nearly completely sealed. Someone laid a burning hex on the international floo centers. A Muggleborn couple was trying to go to Australia, they'd been granted refugee status. The woman burned to death and the man is at St. Mungo's. He's not expected to live, either.

"The Portkey Authorization Department at the Ministry was attacked two days after the Funeral Massacre. Over 400 Portkeys were stolen and all the employees there were killed."

Lupin asked, "You knew—" Draco couldn't make it out—"Department?"

"Yeah. Viola Benson was one of my best friends at Hogwarts. She—she collected chocolate frog cards and used to sign her name with a little viola under it. She thought it was funny." She sounded teary again.

"Borders… last time, too," Draco heard Lupin say. "Even owls—"

"We think there may be traitors in the postal system tampering with the mail. Their head is going mad trying to uncover the culprits, and he's asked the Aurors for help. But we're far too busy tracking missing people to give our time to missing letters." Draco froze: Dora was an _Auror_? "But Death Eaters or dark sympathizers are also shooting owls out of the sky, we think. The _Prophet_'s owl delivery service and the owl-order magazines are facing ruin."

There was an Auror in the next room. Draco eased away from the door and somehow squeezed himself under the bed. It was dusty and he almost sneezed, but he covered his mouth and nose and breathed shallowly until the feeling passed. An Auror! She would arrest him as soon as look at him, he knew. Though it was rather surprising for an Auror to spend time with a werewolf, even if they were related. His father had once mentioned a Ministry worker whose father was bitten by a vampire. The man had blasted his own father's name from the tapestry and erased all mentions of the man. His mistake was in overcompensating when he lobbied for stricter vampire laws, and Lucius found out his dirty little secret. The man was now part of the Dark Lord's Ministry spy network.

He could still hear the Auror's voice, but the words were now indistinct and blurred together. Maybe the Ministry checked on werewolves after the full moon, to be sure the wolf had claimed no victims? But no, that would be a task for the Department to Regulate and Control Magical Creatures. Besides, Dora talked to Lupin like they were friends.

The answer was so obvious Draco could have hit himself when he figured it out; Dora must be a member of the Order of the Phoenix. She must have come on Order business, checking on Lupin a pretext. Draco wished he could still hear the others clearly; here he only caught the rise and fall of their voices. What secret plan was the Order unfolding?

Some Order members were obvious, yes, but their connections to the Order were always unclear and Draco never saw them in that capacity. He knew that McGonagall was in the Order but could not imagine her outside Hogwarts. He considered whether he ought to resume listening at the door—but the decision was taken out of his hands, for a scarce few moments later he heard Dora calling, "Later!" and the cottage's door banging shut.

The bed was still—soiled—and was starting to smell, so Draco only waited a few minutes before leaving the bedroom. Strange, that; he'd spent days only slipping from the room to use the toilet, yet now he felt too restless to continue doing nothing. At the very least he could get a book or something.

Lupin was lying on the sofa, covered with a lime-green blanket (striped with fuchsia) that very nearly made Draco's eyes water with its brightness. Lupin was reading a parchment; as Draco approached he slid it into a plain tan file folder and pushed it between the back of the sofa and one cushion. _Order business_, Draco thought.

"Can I help you, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Who was that?" It came out rather petulant, but honestly, considering he'd wanted to scream, "An Auror!?" he didn't care.

Lupin looked down at his lap (and thus, the garish blanket), his cheeks turning pink. "Ah. Dora is—a friend. My—well—a good friend."

"A… _girlfriend_?" Draco gasped with dawning horror. The thought of a witch and a, a werewolf… how completely revolting. He needed another shower.

Lupin frowned. "I rather thought I'd left that term behind when I left Hogwarts. But I suppose…." He trailed off, looking uncomfortable, and Draco was perfectly happy to let the subject drop.

Although—"Why would an Auror…?" he didn't know how to finish the question.

"Want to be with someone like me?" Lupin finished for him with a dry voice. "I have no idea. I'm just grateful she does." Abruptly changing the topic, he gestured to the newspaper on the low-set table. "The _Prophet_ may be unreliable, but if you want… you are free to read anything in this room, in fact, though I don't know how interesting you'll find my collection." Apparently finished talking for the present, he opened the tan file and began to examine its contents again, angling it so Draco couldn't see anything.

Draco hesitated, wanting to go back to his room, yet reluctant to return to the smell and doubly unwilling to ask the werewolf for anything. He sat down on one of the armchairs and reached for the newspaper. The headline story was about a family of three found dead in their home that morning. The woman was a pureblood and the man was a mudblood. The child was four. There was a picture of the family but Draco didn't do more than glance at it.

There was a sighting of "the murderer, Severus Snape." It didn't sound genuine though; just the product of hysterical minds, jumping at every small sound and seeing Death Eaters in each gathering shadow. There was a small photo of Master Snape, which looked appropriately menacing.

There was an editorial addressed to Potter, begging him to, "go out and fulfill his Destiny as the Chosen One." Draco left the paper fall to the floor, irritated, and stalked over to the bookshelf. Although his father disapproved of such books, Draco had always secretly enjoyed lighthearted escapist fare. His favourites were by Erstmann Schlinkel, whose pureblood heroes defended Wizardkind from muggles, blood traitors and dark creatures of all varieties. Too many other authors of modern, popular fiction insisted on casting practitioners of the ancient arts as the villains. He somehow doubted Lupin kept any Schlinkel on his shelves, though, as the author had a series of three connecting books in which the chief villain was a werewolf. What was that series called again? Oh, right—_Blood Moon_.

But the selection turned out to be even more depressing than he'd guessed. There didn't appear to be any fiction at all. There were some biographies and memoirs. A few of the names were vaguely familiar, but not many. Besides, history was boring. Draco suppressed a groan when upon realizing the next books after the memoirs were all history texts. One book did catch his eye, though, and he pulled it out, stunned. _Of Bloode and Magick, by Heather Donaldson_, stared up at him. A quote on the front read, "How muggle infusion is hurting our society, and how to stop them before it's too late." What an odd title for the werewolf to have; perhaps it was mixed in by mistake? Draco tucked the book under his arm, and kept looking.

There were also a fair number of books on defense against the Dark Arts, and to Draco's surprise, several Dark Arts texts as well. Maybe the mild, Light-supporting Lupin was just an act—Lupin was a Dark Creature, after all. But the next item Draco lingered over wasn't even a book, but a thin, book-shaped box with no lapel on the "spine." When Draco pulled it off the shelf he saw the box's cover did have writing on it; _Quest for Immortality: Speculation on how Voldemort left his body and humanity behind. Contributing authors: A. Dumbledore, A. Dumbledore, E. Doge, B. Fenwick, R. Lupin, D. Meadowes, L. Potter_.

The cover was dusty and Draco fought down a sneeze as he opened it. Inside there was a pile of parchments, the top one covered with the same loopy script as the writing on the outside of the box. Gently replacing the cover, Draco studied the names again, questions rising in his mind. There were two Dumbledores? Had he known that? Who was the other? Lupin—the same one who still lay beneath that atrocious blanket and hadn't even looked Draco's way? And Potter—a relative of the Prat-Who-Lived, he supposed? What were Potter's parents' names again? It might be no more than dry tangential magical theory, but the small box joined the other beneath Draco's arm anyway. A third book soon followed: _So, Someone Wants You Dead: 50 Spells to Keep Your Ticker Ticking, by Alphonse Patrick_.

To see the highest shelf, Draco had to put his selections down and pull over a chair. There was a book on blood rituals that Draco recalled seeing in his father's study; very dark magic. There were seven copies of _Hogwarts: A History_, which took up a great deal of shelf space. A few were of different editions, but still… who would possibly ever need that many? And then, next to an incongruously-placed muggle cookbook, Draco caught the word "anthology." That usually meant fiction, didn't it? Groups of essays tended to be referred to as "collections." He pulled it off the shelf.

It was a pale grey book, fairly small, with a luminous moon floating lazily around the cover, the title written inside the moon. _Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature_. Draco flipped through the book, too quickly to truly make out its contents. Each page was perfectly clean—no traces of fingers smudged with ink or a snack, no little tears in the paper or bent corners. It looked like it had never been read.

Draco lifted the cover. On the inside cover, opposite the title page, there was an inscription. _Happy Christmas 1978, Remus. "Friends are a beacon in times of darkness." I'm__ honoured__ to know you, and shall always remain, your friend, Lily_. Nothing more. Who was Lily, Draco wondered, and where was she now?

There was nothing else of interest on the shelf, so Draco stepped back down to the floor. Sitting down, he opened the anthology to a random page.

It was a poem, no author or title given.

Sun-kissed moon,  
moon-kissed lake;  
soft humming between  
soft trees, each branch  
illuminated, roots melting into  
each other, wind-rustled  
leaves, my breath,  
silent.  
Foot-falls, whisper  
of a shadow, lean back  
grey fur, nearly blue.

In the daylight,  
a scarred trunk is reminiscent  
of something; a half-lit memory  
Rage Pain Howl Scream  
When morning  
breaks  
over streams and mossy stones  
blood cakes under my  
nails, more terrifying than  
a wand between my  
eyes. _What  
__did I do Did I hurt someone_ I  
can't scream, can't look  
at amber eyes  
in the mirror, can't let the  
Wolf in. But next moon, I  
cry, I howl, Escape.

There was a note at the bottom of the page. "This poem was found by a Squib real estate agent in the ruins of a house outside Newcastle. Though the content of the poem suggests authorship by a werewolf, no werewolf activity had been reported in the area in living memory. The editors are indebted to Geraldine Grant for submitting it."

Draco snapped the book closed with more force than necessary, causing Lupin to look over at him. The werewolf stilled when he saw the book Draco held. Draco said defensively, "You said any book."

"So I did." And actually Lupin didn't look angry, just tired and a little sad.

Draco felt bold enough to ask, "Who was she? Lily, I mean."

Lupin closed the file folder and pressed his palm to his forehead for a moment, closing his eyes. "Lily Evans was a friend of mine at Hogwarts. By the time she gave me this she was already married to another friend, James Potter." He didn't open his eyes but he must have heard Draco's sharp intake of breath because he continued without pause, "Yes, she was Harry's mother."

Draco didn't know what to say. No need to ask where she was now, as she'd been dead since Draco was a year old. It was hard to think of the Potters as actual people, with friends they gave Christmas presents to. Their fame came from their deaths, and their deaths were synonymous with a time of great celebration in the Wizarding World. "It looks like you never read it," he finally said.

"I did read it once. It wasn't really to my taste. I prefer nonfiction, as you may have noticed, and many of the pieces are rather melodramatic and angst-ridden. I also wasn't very impressed with the quality of most of the pieces, although in the editors' defense, there's not exactly a large body of werewolf-themed literature out there. I treasure that book not for its contents, but for the message Lily used it to send."

"What message?"

"Read the inscription again, Mr. Malfoy. When she sent me this book, I realized that she knew my secret."

"That you're a—"

"A werewolf, yes. Yet she assured me that we were still friends. A scarce month before that Christmas, I told my then-girlfriend my secret and as you might expect, she broke up with me on the spot. Knowing that Lily would not turn her back on me—well, I appreciated it. Beyond a thank-you note, we never spoke of her knowledge or how she figured my secret out. It remained an unspoken understanding between us, right up until her death."

Draco couldn't imagine learning one of his peers was a werewolf and remaining on good terms with them. Did that make Lily Potter impossibly brave or impossibly stupid?

He didn't realize he was musing aloud until Lupin said with wry amusement, "I daresay both. We were all Gryffindors, after all." Lupin glanced at the other books on the floor by Draco's chair, but didn't comment on his choices. He returned to his file and Draco read a story about a young woman who fell in love with a werewolf. As she grew more and more suspicious of his absences, Lupin stood, wincing at little, and said, "I'd best make us some supper." He walked over to his office, cast an unlocking charm on the door, and put his file inside before locking the room up again. Then he moved slowly to the kitchen and Draco resumed his story. He'd only caught a glimpse of the corner of a desk.

The story ended badly, as Draco might have predicted it would. The witch found out her lover's secret and committed suicide. The werewolf, brokenhearted, also killed himself. The witch's father, enraged, abandoned his Ministry post and took up werewolf hunting. He died a few moons later, and the story ended with the witch's mother crying over the graves of her family. All in all, it was a relief to hear that supper was ready.

They did not talk of serious matters, of Hogwarts or family or dead friends. Lupin said little, concentrating on his meatloaf and potatoes and peas, but he got Draco talking about the Quidditch League, and Draco's ensuing dissection of each team lasted them most of the meal. For his part, Draco was surprised at how readily he was talking—his isolation and silence had been harder on him than he'd even realized. So he did his best to put out of his mind the nature of the one he'd been dining with.

After eating, Draco swallowed his pride and told Lupin, "My room is dirty." He didn't make eye contact, but he could feel Lupin's gaze on him.

At length, Lupin said, "Well, that's easily fixed."

"If you have a wand," Draco thought bitterly. He watched from the table as Lupin went into the bedroom, reemerging less than a minute later. Then and only then did Draco get up, gather his books and go to read a bit more before bed.

The days fell into a sort of pattern. Lupin stopped leaving Draco's meals outside the bedroom door, apparently expecting him to come to the table if he wanted food. Draco rose late and ate a midmorning snack before doing some reading. If it was a clear day, Lupin usually spent some time outside in his vegetable garden. The _Prophet_ arrived by owl shortly after lunch. Lupin read it right away when it came, always growing quiet and pensive. When he was finished, he disappeared into his office and Draco took his turn with the paper.

There tended to be one or two attacks each day. Sometimes they resulted in injury, sometimes death, and sometimes the person—or people—simply vanished. Six days after the full moon, Draco saw a name he knew.

It was an attack on a café many Ministry workers went to during lunch. Only one person died, though another was at St. Mungo's and apparently not faring well. But Percy Weasley, Hogwarts class of '94 (Gryffindor, Prefect, Head Boy) was dead. It didn't matter, Draco thought. The whole Weasley lot were a bunch of blood-traitors. They certainly didn't deserve their pureblood status, not when everyone knew it was only chance no muggle blood had seeped into their line in the last 300 years.

And Percy—why, he'd been one of the more useless of the lot. Draco had heard that the first two, who were at Hogwarts before Draco started, were at least marginally intelligent and he reluctantly admitted that when the beastly twins were pranking Houses other than Slytherin, they could be mildly amusing. But only a little. The one in his year was a complete idiot, but had the distinction of being the Prat-Who-Lived's best mate, and the girl was undoubtedly Potter's little slut, but even Draco had to acknowledge that she was very pretty. Some of his fellow Quidditch players had nearly been obsessed by her and put a picture of her up in their changing room lockers when they thought Draco wasn't paying attention.

But Percy—he'd been as obnoxious as the others, but without any skills Draco had ever noticed. How he'd gotten Head Boy, Draco had no idea; clearly it was a case of Dumbledore favouring his precious Gryffindors yet again. He didn't care that Percy was dead. He had no respect for the other in life and none in death, even if the Prophet's story about Percy saving other's in the café was true. And it probably wasn't.

Still… Percy was the first one Draco actually knew to die. The first member of the Weasley clan to fall. But not the last, Draco thought, recalling the tight set of Lupin's mouth when the werewolf retreated to his office. And surprisingly, the thought brought Draco little pleasure.

He read Donaldson's book first, and it seemed to say all the things he'd been taught in childhood, all the instinctive hatred and disgust of muggle ways that the Light side stood against. Something about some of the rhetoric was slightly off, though, some of the sentences worded just a little oddly. On page 62 Draco figured out the book was actually a satire of Pureblood views, mocking all his beliefs. No wonder Lupin arched a brow whenever he saw Draco reading it!

Draco tried reading a little bit more, but now that he was aware of the book's true agenda, he was deeply conscious of the smug mockery ingrained in each sentence. He was irritated with Lupin for having the book, with himself for taking so long to recognize what it was, and of course, with Donaldson for writing it at all. He glared at her picture on the back cover, a lithe, attractive witch with smoky dark eyes and fair curly hair, a smirk playing about her mouth. She was a Ravenclaw and died in 1975, just days short of her thirtieth birthday. At first Draco had thought she was one of the Dark Lord's supporters, but now he supposed she'd been on the opposite side, killed for having the insolence to publish such a book. So Draco returned it to the shelf.

With the border nearly sealed, Draco's plan of getting Lupin to help him leave the country was essentially pointless. So Draco found himself in an impossible position; unable to stay indefinitely, yet unable to leave—especially with no wand. It would be complete suicide. So he continued to eat meals with the werewolf, and quietly read Patrick's book on spells to keep oneself alive, occasionally reading a snippet from the anthology. He was sure Lupin had some sort of plan for Draco, despite the werewolf's statements to the contrary. All Draco could do for now was try to anticipate the werewolf's plans and foil them.

And then, as Draco was reading the paper one day (a Hufflepuff among the dead, but he didn't recognize her name) Lupin emerged from his office early. Lupin said without preamble, "We need to talk about the next full moon. It's later this week."

"I know," said Draco, who'd long since figured out the little circle on the calendar which represented the moon. "It won't be the same as last time?"

"No. I'm meeting with some others and won't be here."

Draco thought, "Other werewolves?" but did not speak.

"I don't want you here alone, not without a wand."

Draco laughed bitterly. "By all mean, let's select a location from the vast number of places open to me."

"Oh, I have a place in mind. But you'll need a disguise." Lupin raised his wand then, and when he finished Draco slipped into the washroom. The face he saw looking back at him from the mirror was completely unfamiliar.


	5. Lapageria rosea

Neither Neville Longbottom nor the universe he inhabits belong to me.

5 - _Lapageria rosea_

_[["What is it, Rowena? What's got you so excited?"_

"_I think I've found it, Salazar. The missing link in _Incendia-Aurum_. Just think! The perfect healing potion. Just imagine! No more children dying before their time."_

"_You've tested it?"_

"_Against nearly everything I can think of, except that ghastly curse your brother developed. I just need to finish writing my notes and then share them so other Potions Masters can verify the results."_

"_Rowena… I think you should wait. Something is coming in the stars, something that unsettles me."_

"_But how could it possibly hurt anyone? It's a healing potion. If anything, it should help."_

"_I don't know. Please… trust me?"_

_The above was the last recorded conversation between Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin[translated into modern English by Candace Newfolk. It raises far more questions for historians than it answers (beyond the obvious question of the third party who heard and recorded it). Had Ravenclaw truly discovered the potion considered more myth than fact even in her time? What was Slytherin's purpose in stopping her? And why did she never publish the knowledge, even after Slytherin broke with the other founders?_

_--_from_ The Hogwarts Founders: The Riddles They Solved and the Riddles They Left Us, _by_ Kenneth Royer_

As he trailed after Lupin up the long driveway, Draco reflected that although the approaching mansion wasn't as imposing or impressive as Malfoy Manor (as though any house could be!) it did come fairly close. Ivy chased itself up old brick walls and the fence they'd passed through just outside the Apparition wards was heavy wrought-iron.

Draco studied the back of Lupin's head. The werewolf looked very ill and weak. One look at him and any healer would set him bed rest. He'd made breakfast as usual but didn't eat a bite of it, and nearly one o'clock pulled himself out of his chair, saying, "It's time to go." Draco had frankly doubted whether Lupin would be able to Apparate them both, but said nothing, and fortunately they'd arrived at their destination with a limbs still attached and in the correct places.

Draco had spent a few days at the cottage under the Glamour in order to grow accustomed to it. It was a fairly complex charm, and one Draco hadn't heard of before. It was quite encompassing; not only did it change such features as hair and eyes but also the features of Draco's face and even his build, to a certain extent. There were some limitations, however. The charm could not be cast on oneself and it only lasted four days before it needed to be reapplied. And though it withstood some revealing spells, if hit with the correct spell the effect would dissipate.

For that reason, Lupin added to Draco's new features a disfiguring scar slashing across his face, and put a simple Glamour on top of that. It was his hope that, should someone doubt Draco's story and cast _Finite Incantum_ or a revealing charm, Draco's false features would remain, but with the scar popping into view. Then, hopefully, the caster would be embarrassed and not think of casting a second, more comprehensive spell. The whole thing was Lupin's idea, and Draco still felt a grudging appreciation for Lupin's craftiness; it was a plan worthy of a Slytherin.

And his new look? His face was not so narrow; not round, exactly, but the points of his chin and nose were not so sharp. His skin was darker, too, almost the complexion of an Italian. His eyes and hair were an unremarkable brown, and his frame was sturdier. Not fat, but not the leanness of a Seeker, either. Of course the illusion didn't truly add any muscle tone, but when Draco looked in the mirror his immediate reaction was, "Definitely a Beater."

His new face was very plain. The sort of face one saw and forgot upon looking away, the sort to blend into a crowd and become almost invisible. Draco understood why Lupin gave him such features, but it was still irritating to be—well, not ugly, he had to admit, but so bland. His true features were striking and handsome. That was not vanity, Draco thought, but simple fact.

There was movement from the front of the house and a house elf popped up before them, squeaking, "Jiri welcomes Master Remy and guest to Longbottom Estates!"

While Lupin thanked the elf, Draco stopped dead in his tracks. "Longbottom?" he hissed. "_This_ is the family?" Yes, now he could recognize one of the approaching people as the squib in his year.

The elf looked confused, and Lupin said placidly, "This reaction is exactly why I didn't tell you before. Ah, here they are." And if Draco said anything more he knew he'd likely blow his cover.

"Remus!" Longbottom said with a big smile, holding out his arms.

"Cub," said Lupin, a little smile playing around his mouth as he gave the boy a small hug. Longbottom stepped back and the elderly woman who'd also come out of the house held out a hand, not looking particularly pleased. "Augusta," Lupin said pleasantly, shaking her hand.

"Lupin." Then she turned her gaze on Draco. "And this is your charge, I suppose?"

"Indeed. Jacob, this is Augusta Longbottom and her grandson, Neville. Augusta, Neville, this is Jacob Elliott."

Draco nodded at them both. Apparently finished inspecting him, the elderly witch ordered, "Neville, show our guest to his room. I will speak with your teacher."

"Sure," said Longbottom. "Come up and say 'bye,' before you go, OK Remus?"

"All right," said Lupin, and so Draco found himself following Longbottom away, half-listening to his chatter.

"—so exciting, we've never had someone my age come to stay. You can call me Nev, if you like, some of my friends do. I know you were home-schooled—did you ever wish you could go to Hogwarts? It has its ups and downs I guess but I'm glad I go there. I don't know if it will be open next year, though, and next year is my last year. What's your favorite subject? I like Herbology, and Defense—depending on the teacher—but I hate Potions more than anything. Oh—here it is."

The guestroom was moderately sized and tastefully decorated. Draco dropped his bag and sat down on the bed, belatedly realizing Longbottom had asked something. "I'm sorry?" he said as politely as he could.

"Is the room all right?" Longbottom was looking at him strangely.

"Oh—yes. Thank you—Nev." Longbottom's face brightened when Draco used the nickname. Though, Draco mused, he should probably try to think of the other boy as "Nev," as well, or he might slip up. There was a short, awkward silence. Draco cleared his throat and asked, "So how do you know Mr. Lupin?"

Longb—"Nev"—started chattering about his third-year Defense class, which of course Draco already knew. The story about Longb—Nev's—boggart being Master Snape had gone all around the Slytherin common room. So while "Nev" went into far more detail about the school year that necessary, Draco let his mind wander.

It wasn't surprising they had little to talk about. Draco couldn't ask "Nev" about his family—he knew very well where the Aurors Longbottom resided. St. Mungo's, primarily by the hand of his Aunt Bellatrix. And "Nev" wouldn't ask about "Jacob Elliott's" family. The story Lupin had invented was that werewolves attacked the Elliott family during the last full moon, killing both parents. Lupin was purposefully vague about how "Jacob" ended up with him rather than some Ministry-sanctioned foster family, and apparently the Longbottoms were well-mannered enough not to push.

"—so he told the Slytherins that Remus was a werewolf, and Remus had to resign. Sorry—it still makes me mad. He was our best Defense teacher ever, and the worst teacher ever ruined it all." Master Snape certainly wasn't the worst teacher ever, not by a long shot, but Draco couldn't exactly say that right now.

Instead, he managed to say, fairly diplomatically he thought, "Why was he the worst?"

Neville paused. "Lots of reasons. I don't want to talk about it now though. Anyway, I was really upset when Remus left. Except for Herbology, his class was the first one I was ever any good in. And, you know, Herbology is more passive magic, almost no spell-casting. I felt—better—about myself in Professor Lupin's class."

"I understand," said Draco, making a supreme effort not to say anything mocking. "But I still don't understand how that made him a family friend. Or why you call him by his given name."

"I just couldn't make it make sense in my head, you know. I thought I knew how all werewolves behaved, from books and things, but I also knew Professor Lupin wasn't like that. And I saw how people turned on him when they found out, even people who'd always respected him and been perfectly nice before. But you know, Professor Lupin was always a werewolf. I mean, it wasn't him who changed the way he acted, it was everyone else. It bothered me. It wasn't fair."

"Ah, the Gryffindor obsession with fairness," Draco thought.

"I needed answers. I wrote a letter to him—a pretty jumbled letter, I think, looking back now. Eventually, he wrote back. I—I didn't have many close friends then, and Gran thought it was a letter from one of my mates. She was pleased and—well, I didn't want to admit it wasn't a classmate, so I pretended I'd made a quill pal. So Gran went and got me all this nice stationary and so I wrote to him again. And he wrote back again, and it kind of went from there.

"Of course, Gran eventually figured out the truth and she wasn't very happy. She sent me to my room and hunted Remus down—ah, that didn't come out quite right—to tell him off. I don't know what they talked about but then they started exchanging letters too! And then she invited him to stay here for a few weeks! So Remus became sort of a mentor to me and he told him to stop calling him "Professor," because he wasn't anymore."

Draco frowned. "Did your Gran know he was a werewolf from the start?"

"Of course I did." Both boys whipped their heads around to see Mrs. Longbottom standing in the doorway. Her sharp eyes rested on Draco. "Lupin tells me you no longer have a wand."

"That's correct. It was broken. And now that I'm in hiding and Ollivander has vanished…." He shrugged.

"That's unacceptable, especially in these times. I know a wandcrafter. An eccentric old witch, and her methods are certainly different from Ollivander's, but highly skilled in her own way. I'll send her an owl."

Draco didn't know what to say, and he doubted Lupin would allow him a wand in any case. But Lupin, who had entered the room after Mrs. Longbottom, said, "I appreciate that, Augusta, and I'm sure Jacob does as well. In the meantime, Jacob, I expect you to exercise every precaution and to behave appropriately."

"Not to go running back to the Dark Lord," Draco silently translated. "Not to tell these blood traitors what I really think of them." Aloud, he said only, "Yes, sir."

"I'll see you in a day or two then." What was the second day for, Draco wondered. Simply to recover in his bed without Draco underfoot? Or a mission for the Order, perhaps?

"Be careful," Neville said earnestly. Lupin smiled at him, but made no promises, and a moment later he was gone. Mrs. Longbottom also retreated from the room. Neville bit his lip and seemed lost in thought for a time, then seemed to shake himself and pasted a falsely bright smile on his round face. "Right then… want to see the greenhouses?"

Much like his reaction to the main house, Draco was reluctantly impressed by the greenhouses, which were actually far more extensive than the ones at Malfoy Manor. Just inside the doors, Neville became engrossed in a discussion with a house elf about some kind of parasite problem with the banana trees. Not particularly interested in listening to them debate the best course of action, Draco wandered further inside, careful to keep to the marked path.

He recognized some of the plants, but not very many. Herbology was of little use to him; now the potions ingredients they made, that was a different matter completely. Neville caught up with him just as he was looking over a vine with pretty bellflowers. The unusual colour of the flowers—rosy red with white mottling—was what had caught his attention. "Ah, I see you've found my _Lapageria rosea_ Isn't she a beauty?" Neville said affectionately, glancing at the surrounding soil's moisture gauge.

"Is it a magical plant?" That was the tricky thing about Herbology, it indiscriminately used muggle plants and methods right alongside magical ones.

"Oh, Muggles know about it, it's the national flower of a Muggle country in South America. But it has magical properties, too. The leaves are used in _Tenura tutela tenura dignitas_." Draco looked at the dark, oblong leaves appraisingly. The "Double Tenura" as potionmakers often termed it, was among the scant three percent of blood rituals that wasn't classed as "Dark." Rumour had it that Potter's mother—he recalled suddenly that her name was Lily—had made some sort of modification to the ancient potion of protection, and that may have played a role in sparing Potter's life those years ago.

But the other boy, heedless of Draco's distraction, continued, "The flowers are used sometimes in Mind Healing, and some herbologists have postulated it may be an ingredient in _Victus Incendia-Aurum_.

"_Incendia-Aurum_ is a myth," Draco said automatically. "A fantasy of healers and storytellers." A Potion to heal any injury, to fix what even Phoenix tears alone could not. _Living Fire-Gold_.

Neville smiled. "Perhaps." He gave the flowers one last pat, and they moved on. After examining the Venomous Tentacula (from a safe distance) Neville broke the silence. "Ah, sorry I sort of forgot you before, but you really shouldn't go around in here alone, especially without a wand."

"I stayed on the path," Draco said, irritated.

"Well, that's good, but some of the plants are kind of aggressive to strangers whether they're on the path or not. You'd better stay close to me, just in case."

Draco gritted his teeth and nodded. The very idea of needing protection from the squib… but it was true that the Gryffindor was acting different here from how he did at Hogwarts. More confident, somehow.

Dinner was uncomfortable. Mrs. Longbottom smoked a man's pipe and talked through the whole meal about the doings of the Lady's Society she belonged to. It sounded mostly like card games, gossip and the sporadic charitable work to Draco. It appeared that neither he nor Neville were required to speak. After dinner Draco let himself get roped into playing a few games of chess, easily winning each time. He could have done without Neville's, "Wow, I think you might be almost as good as my friend Ron," though.

That night, Draco lay awake in the unfamiliar bed, staring up at the dark ceiling without really seeing it. Everything was quiet. He wondered where Lupin was at that same moment—only because he had nowhere else to go and in a few days his disguise would fall, of course. Eventually he drifted off into uneasy dreams.

The next day was July 21st. Death Eaters wiped out six families in the countryside outside Leeds. Some of the deaths were caused by werewolves. Neville challenged Draco to a game of Gobstones, and lost miserably. Lupin did not come.

July 22nd. Neville, after losing three successive games of Exploding Snap, confided in Draco that his birthday was July 30th. "I'll finally be of age, so I can go for my Apparition license and practice spells here." There was a sort of determination in his voice Draco had never heard before. Two people were reported missing. Lupin did not come.

July 23rd. Neville told Draco about his parents. He told Draco that more than anything he wanted to kill Bellatrix Lestrange. He asked if Draco thought that made him a bad person. Draco swallowed hard and told him it did not. Draco was brought up understanding the inherent worth of vengeance; Lucius was a great believer in it. A wizard who did not seek revenge after being wronged was weak. So why should the rightness of it be negated if the one seeking vengeance was a Gryffindor? It was a startling thought.

As dusk was beginning to gather, Lupin arrived. He looked even worse than after the last full moon, Draco thought—especially considering it was a day and a half since the end of the moon. He leaned heavily on a cane and limped slowly up the long driveway. As he approached, Draco saw a nasty cut alarmingly close to his right eye. When Neville offered some of their supper—they were just finishing when Jiri informed them Lupin had arrived—Lupin blanched. He did sit for a little while though, and listened to Neville talk about his plants while Draco got his bag.

As he was returning to the entryway, Draco heard Neville ask, "—Jacob come over for my birthday?"

"_No,_" Draco thought as he walked into the room.

"I'm sorry, Neville. Jacob is helping me with a project and I need him there." Draco noticed the look Neville sent him. _Jealousy_. Lupin continued, "But of course you may write to each other. Just enclose any messages for Jacob inside the same envelope you send my letters in. I assure you, I won't read his mail. Jacob? Let's go."

Mrs. Longbottom rose and asked, "You're certain you don't want to rest a bit longer? We have plenty of spare rooms," her concern obvious despite her usual stern tone.

"I'd rest better at home, but thank you." Lupin limped out of the room.

"See you then," Draco said awkwardly, and followed. Once outside the house, he asked, "What is this project I'm working on with you?"

"There isn't one. I didn't think you would want to spend Neville's birthday with him. Was I wrong?" Draco shook his head, noting again how unwell the werewolf looked. Lupin walked slowly and weaved from side to side a bit. Draco asked quietly, "Why not stay? The Glamour will last until midday tomorrow."

"I don't need or want pity and I don't accept charity." Draco shot him a sharp glance, but Lupin was concentrating on the ground immediately in front of his feet.

"You sure you'll be able Apparate? I can Apparate myself there."

"I've managed it feeling worse." That wasn't completely an answer, but Draco let it go.

He hadn't seen the outside of the cottage before, but it was unremarkable. Seeing the familiar sofa and bookshelves gave him an odd feeling, though he couldn't have said what. Lupin immediately lay down on the sofa, pulling a fuzzy, blazing orange blanket over him as he did so.

Draco spotted the newspaper on kitchen area's table, still rolled up. He grabbed it and a glass of pumpkin juice and went to read it in bed.

Three people had been killed the day before. Draco carefully put the juice down, managing to not spill quite all of it as he stared at the front page. Theodore Nott had refused the Dark Mark. He would never play chess in the Slytherin Common Room again. And a Death Eater assassination team attacked the home of a prominent Light family in a village called Ottery St. Catchpole. Only two family members were home at the time, but it was enough.

Molly and Ginevra Weasley were dead.

* * *

I'm so evil. And there is much, much more to come….

_Lapageria_ _rosea_ is the scientific name for the Copihue (Chilean Bellflower). It is Chile's national flower, but as far as I know does not actually have any magical properties. : )

And hey, thanks to Spots on a Pony for reviewing. I told myself I'd never beg for reviews, but, truth be told, the underwhelming response is giving my ego a bit of a beating (although that's not necessarily a bad thing). I'm sure hope it's not begging if I simply say that I'd love to hear your thoughts, both on what is working and what isn't.


	6. The Brothers Black

Neither Sirius Black nor the universe he inhabited belong to me.

6 – The Brothers Black

"_Walburga, it's good to see you. I trust you are well?"_

"_Indeed."_

"_And the boys?"_

"_I have no children."_

_-Caught on a floating recorder at the 1980 Ministry Christmas Ball (it also caught the Minister accidentally introducing his wife to his mistress. The next day's _Prophet_ sold a record number of copies)._

He'd only seen the adult Weasleys a few times, at King's Cross and the like. But Ginny was one of the most popular girls at Hogwarts. A large part of that came from her skills as a Seeker and a Chaser. Quidditch players were always mini-celebrities in the student body, and very popular. She was pretty and did fairly well in her classes, though not well enough to make the Ravenclaws jealous and irritable. And she was Potter's girl.

The Dark Lord would kill everyone Potter cared about. Draco had always known that. He'd see Potter laughing with his friends and Hogwarts, the mudblood and weasels and the squib, and been darkly amused, knowing it would not last. But he'd spent most of the past year terrified that his own mother was about to be killed. He'd never lived with that sort of fear before. He had a feeling that, were he to meet the Weasel in that moment, not only would he not taunt the other boy, he wouldn't even be able to look Weasley in the eye.

He read the stories again. There was barely enough of Nott for the Aurors to identify him. A Portkey sent the body to the Ministry atrium during a press conference, a clear message to those who would deny the Dark Lord. And the Weasleys—there was blood on the floor that did not belong to either of the victims. They had fought back. And the Dark Mark, blazing overhead.

Did Lupin know? Perhaps that was why he'd been delayed. And that brought another thought: even if Lupin and Potter weren't as close as Draco suspected they were, Lupin was in the Order of the Phoenix. He would be a target, too. And what would that mean for Draco?

"Have you seen this?" he asked the next morning, sliding the paper towards Lupin's side of the table. Lupin took it and glanced over the headlines. He looked sad, but not surprised, so he probably already knew about the Weasleys. "Nott was in my House," Draco added.

"Yes, I remember. He was quiet, a bit standoffish, if I remember correctly."

"Yes…."

"He did good work in my class."

"Well, he wasn't a friend or anything."

Lupin looked up from the newspaper then and studied Draco. "Yet you still feel his loss."

Draco opened his mouth to disagree, but changed his mind. "Maybe a little." He gestured to the other headline. "Does Potter know?"

Lupin sighed. "I wasn't the one to deliver the news, but yes, he does." He threw the newspaper away.

On July 29th there was a knock on the front door. Draco wore the Glamour all the time now. When they had the option of disguising his features, to do otherwise seemed foolish. He put down his book and waited for Lupin to emerge from the office, watching as the older man walked to the door. His face bore a new scar from the full moon, but other than that he was recovered.

There was a woman on the other side of the door. She was fairly short, and had such long white hair her braids dragged on the ground behind her. She held out a roll of parchment. There was writing at the top, printed in large blocky letters. "Esmeralda Nettle. Lady Longbottom tells me you need a new wand."

"Do come in," said Lupin, stepping back from the door. "This is Jacob."

Instead of speaking, the old witch pulled her wand and jabbed it at the parchment, causing more words to appear. "Glamours interfere with the selection process. And before you ask, I took a vow of silence years ago, after Grindlewald killed my husband."

Lupin considered the former and tactfully did not comment on the latter. "It's important to Jacob's safety that he stay disguised."

Another flick of the wand. "I take the confidentially of my customers seriously. None of this blabbing about all my other wands that Ollivander does. I'll sign a magical contract attesting to that, even if that boy is actually He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself." A pause. "He isn't, is he?"

Lupin smirked. "Not quite."

After Nettle signed a magically binding contract, Lupin removed the Glamour. If the wandmaker if surprised by his new appearance, she didn't show it. An enchanted tape measure began its work and Draco read on the parchment, "Your previous wand was…?"

"Elder and dragon heartstring."

"Yes, dragon heartstring is a good match for you, young Dragon. But Elder? Hmm…." Draco gave the old witch a sharp look at the reference to his real name, but she didn't seem to care, so he said nothing.

Abruptly the tape measure rolled up and flew into Nettle's hand. She nodded a few times as though it was talking to her, then drew a sparkling circle in the air with her wand. Reaching inside the circle, her hand disappeared, and a moment later reappeared with a large leather case. She dissolved her dimensional circle and opened the case, revealing several wood cuttings. Two gleamed almost white, five or six were dark brown, and the rest had a rich red hue. "Which one?"

Draco reached for the first piece, but Nettle drew his gaze back to her parchment. "You don't need to touch them. Just look about them. Think about how you feel when you cast spells. Then tell me which one."

Draco took a step back and tried to do as she requested. Lupin looked curious, too. After a minute or so, Draco felt his attention drift to one of the pieces. Yes. That one. It was one of the reddish ones. He indicated it.

"Almond! Excellent choice, child. Almond calls to those with a very sweet natural being. Yes, yes, aspects of fruitfulness and virginity as well."

Well, fruitfulness wasn't too bad; he was expected to produce at least one male heir. But the other?" "I'm not a virgin!" He caught Lupin hiding a smile and that just irritated him more. He wasn't "sweet," either!

Nettle snapped her attention back to Draco and quickly wrote, "Sorry, child. It doesn't mean you'll stay a virgin or even that you are one, just is associated with cleanliness and purity."

Like purity of blood? Maybe it was alright then.

"Almond also aids in self-protection. And your dragon heartstring has aspects to counter these. Yes… this will be a good, well-balanced wand." She closed the case and put it away as writing appeared rapidly on the parchment. "All my wands are crafted in my workshop by hand. The length and width are measured to the 60th of the inch to give you a wand performing like no other you've ever owned. This order comes to twelve Galleons."

Lupin sighed and reached into the pocket of his robes, coming up with seven of the large gold coins. He went into his office and came back with the rest of the money, counting out the last Galleon in Sickles. Draco was embarrassed, even though he'd already known Lupin was poor. "Thank you for your business," wrote Nettle. "Your wand will be owled out in two to two and a half weeks. Good day!"

"Good day." Lupin returned. He stood in the open doorway watching Nettle until she was past the ward boundaries and Disapparated. Then he turned to Draco. "I'm making a very large leap of faith here, getting you a wand."

'Why are you then?" Draco challenged.

"Because Augusta was right. Times are far too dangerous for anyone to go without a wand. You need only look at the newspaper to realize that."

"You think I'll attack you and run away?"

Lupin's eyebrows rose. "I've told you before that you're free to go when you wish."

"Or I might attack the Longbottoms."

"Are you trying to persuade me I _shouldn't_ let you have the wand?"

Draco crossed his arms. "I'm just trying to understand."

"You're a Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy."

"Meaning what?" That came out more defensive than Draco intended.

"Meaning, self-interest is what concerns you. What advantage would attacking Neville and his grandmother serve?"

"It might please the Dark Lord." It was the first time he'd brought up the Dark Lord with Lupin.

Lupin sighed. "It _might_. Are you willing to stake your life on the odds that it will?" Draco had no answer to that. But Lupin wasn't finished. "You are not a killer, Mr. Malfoy, and I refuse to see another innocent sent to Azkaban. But neither are you for the Light, so I cannot offer you the resources of the Order. I will not send you away when you have nowhere else to go. That leaves—here." He headed back towards his office, pausing before he went inside. "And Mr. Malfoy? Rest assured that should you harm the Longbottoms and run, I will find you." It was a plain statement of fact.

Draco shivered days later just remembering that flat tone. No, there was no need to attack the Longbottoms. Once he had his new wand, he could start practicing. Training himself. Then, he'd do something that in one act showed the Dark Lord that not only was Draco with him, but had also overcome his weakness.

Now that he had a real plan, it was torture waiting for his new wand to arrive. He'd already finished all the books he'd originally picked out but two. One of course, was the satire he couldn't bring himself to finish. The other was the box with theories about the Dark Lord. He'd looked at it a little. It wasn't one long scroll, but rather a collection of essays, each offering the author's ideas and theories.

He'd read the introduction, which was penned by Headmaster Dumbledore… former Headmaster Dumbledore. All the essays were written by members of the Order of the Phoenix. The first essay was by a runes expert called Elphias Doge. Draco only managed the first paragraph, where Doge explained that he would be investigating runes and that his essay would thus only shed light on a single aspect of the Dark Lord's efforts. After that, Draco was completely lost and set the papers aside.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to understand what Doge—whoever he was—was talking about. A part of him was afraid if he understood how the Dark Lord became invincible, the other wizard would not be as mysterious and awe-inspiring to him. After all, he'd been brought before the Dark Lord at the start of the previous summer along with other Death Eater-hopefuls. They'd listened to a Song of Slytherin that in a strange way echoed the annual Sorting Song at Hogwarts, and the Dark Lord demonstrated his power in an unforgettable way. But he hadn't explained how he accomplished what he had, so perhaps he didn't want his followers to know.

So far, however, the new knowledge only made Draco even more awed by the Dark Lord. Draco was only a year from finishing school, took Ancient Runes, and did quite well. Yet he scarcely understood a word of the essay, and that comprised only a tiny part of what the Dark Lord had accomplished. So Draco found himself looking over the bookshelves again, paying more attention to the textbooks this time. Sure enough, there were several books about runes.

And… there! _Advanced Rune Translation_. That was one of his textbooks last year. If nothing else he was familiar with the book, and it would make a good starting place. He opened the book and it SHRIEKED at him!

Stunned, Draco slammed the book shut, biting back his own cry. A moment later Lupin burst out of office, wand drawn. "What is it?" He stopped short when he saw Draco.

Embarrassed now, Draco said, "It was the book. Someone hexed it to scream when opened."

Lupin seemed to be fighting a smile. "Oh, I'd say _someone_ did more than that."

Confused, Draco looked down at the book, his hands, darkened from the Glamour of course… there was a bit of colour in his peripheral vision. Colour where there should be none. Because the cottage was so small, a few steps took him into the bathroom. "Well," said the mirror cheerfully. "That's a new look for you, laddy."

A clown face. In the fraction of a second the book had been open, he'd gotten short curly hair the colours of the rainbow, bright red circles on his cheeks and a violently purple balloon-like nose. "What the hell!" he swore, dropping the book. "Turn me back!" he demanded.

Lupin cleared his throat. "Better to tackle the book first, I think. The _someone_ who set this prank wouldn't make the effects that easy to get rid of." He picked the book up and headed back into the main room, setting it on the table. First, he carefully examined the book. His smile had faded, an intent look taking its place. Then wand at ready, he opened the cover.

Immediately the book started shrieking again, and the same clown hair, nose and makeup appeared on Lupin. Draco covered his ears, but it didn't seem to bother Lupin, who looked thoughtful for a moment, then started what Draco could only assume was a long string of incantations, since he couldn't hear the other's voice. And as he lowered his wand, the screaming stopped… only to be replaced with a horribly off-key yodeling, just as ear-splittingly loud. In that instant the clown getup also disappeared, to be replaced with a cowboy hat, neckerchief, spurs, and a piece of hay between their teeth. Draco groaned, spitting out the hay, but Lupin actually grinned before lifting his wand to try again.

The bloody book effectively held them hostage for nearly three hours. The book whistled, told dirty jokes, sang an aria, played a tango, and made a sound like clapping hands, a doorbell, a phoenix trill, a church bell, and a waterfall before closing with belching sounds. All the sound effects were the same volume. And each was also accompanied by a different visual effect as well.

They cycled through skimpy fig leaves, cat ears (which were involved in one of the jokes. Draco had never wished to be obliviated before), tuxedos, flamenco dresses (complete with a flower behind one ear), a Quidditch jersey—for the Harpies!—a house elf towel, red and gold feathers, a monk's robe with rosary, swimsuits and for the finale, some kind of bizarre Halloween costume that combined a grim (from black fur everywhere to a shaggy tail) and a deer (with antlers and hooves in place of hands and feet). It was difficult for Lupin to hold his wand with his hoof, which meant listening to someone exuberantly belching for an especially long time.

In the wake of that ordeal, the house's normal silence seemed bizarrely loud. "What the bloody hell was that?" Draco finally asked. Lupin was silent for a moment, looking at the closed book on the table, almost sad. But when he turned to Draco, there was a hint of humour in his eyes.

"That… that was the work of your great uncle."

At first, Draco didn't completely process the words. Once he had, he said, "I don't have any great uncles." He'd collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs midway through the prank and Lupin now sat down as well.

"Perhaps not on your father's side; I confess to not knowing the Malfoy family tree. But your mother has two male cousins. Or rather, had."

Draco thought of the family tapestry. Although he'd studied it many times, he'd generally traced directly back, not gone in side directions looking at cousins once removed and the like. But he would think he'd remember cousins from only one generation back! "No, she doesn't," he argued.

"They were both blasted off the family tapestry, I imagine. One was Sirius Black."

Sirius Black he knew about. In third year he'd thought the escaped convict a pureblood ally, but later learned otherwise. It wasn't a surprise Black was stricken from the family tapestry. But his mother had always implied Black was a far more distant relation.

"And the other?"

"His brother Regulus."

"Never heard of him."

Lupin sighed. "Regulus was the younger brother. He did everything Sirius refused to do; sorted into Slytherin, upheld the Black family beliefs, and became a Death Eater right out of Hogwarts. We'll probably never know the details of what happened, but apparently he tried to leave Voldemort's service. Voldemort killed him for it, of course. You would have been a few months old, I think." He ignored the way Draco flinched each time he said "Voldemort."

Draco considered this. "So… Sirius Black did this?" It didn't make much sense to him.

"Sirius, James Potter and I were best friends at Hogwarts, along with another boy."

"Who?"

"That's a story for a different day. James and Sirius were both exceptionally brilliant students, and turned to pranks as an outlet for their boredom. The only comparison I can make is to the Weasley twins, except there are only two of them. There were four of us. And we had James' invisibility cloak as well. You've undoubtedly been aware of Harry using it."

"Yes…."

"After Voldemort was reborn at the end of your fourth year, Albus decided to reform the Order of the Phoenix, and set Sirius and I to finding and informing everyone. We spent a great deal of time here, but I didn't allow Sirius outside. The Ministry knew we were old friends and watched the house. Sirius got bored. Very, very bored."

"I see."

"Once he got a new wand he also had to get used to doing magic again, so I encouraged any magic that left my house standing. I thought I'd found all the traps he'd set, but obviously not. He knew I rarely open that book, and that it would be a long time before his prank was discovered."

"It wasn't very funny."

"Pranks rarely are to their victims. I'm sure he was laughing, wherever he is now. And funny or not, that was a nice piece of magic. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how did the prank work?" That was Lupin's "teacher voice." Draco decided to humour him.

"Well, lots of books have sounded embedded in then, either a single page or the whole book. But he must have shielded it from _Finite Incantum_ and other simple stopping spells. Stopping one sound triggered another."

"And the visual effects?"

"They must have been tied to the sounds. When each sound first began, it triggered a silent clothing transfiguration spell on any person in the room." Draco thought over what he'd just said. "You're right, it was pretty advanced magic. A waste of his skills though."

"All our former teachers would undoubtedly agree." Lupin reached out and ran a hand down the book's spine before picking it up. Then he opened it, and Draco automatically winced in anticipation of shrieks or worse. But the book was silent.

Lupin closed it again and offered it to Draco. "I believe you wanted this." Draco took it, surprised by the momentary sadness he saw flash across Lupin's features. He had the sudden thought that had he not been there, Lupin would have let his dead friend's prank play longer, regardless of the noise.

For some reason, he didn't feel much like reading runes anymore.

* * *

I spent quite a while trying to figure out how much to have Draco know about Sirius (Not having access to the books made it a bit harder). I hope the way I played it makes sense.

In completely non-fannish news, I finished all my finals. Though I had to rip up two for cheating, overall the kids didn't do too bad. Now it's off to summer camp with me—I just hope my boss was telling the truth when he said I have internet access there.


	7. Boggarts

They tried to give me a dirty dorm room and 42 lessons a week (including weekend classes) but I was adament. So I'm in a nice hotel room, and have 28 classes/week with weekends off (and internet, as you can see). But I'm still kind of annoyed with all things China at the moment. (Sorry-had to vent a bit). Thanks for the kind reviews, and on with the story...

Neither Augusta Longbottom nor the universe she inhabits belong to me.

7 – Boggarts

_Boggart  
__By Christiano Lark_

_Tell me, Darling what you fear  
__Is it dread shapes in the dark?  
__-Just the moon, drawing near_

_On this April night so clear  
__Windows wide and faint dog barking  
__Tell me, Darling, what you fear_

_Not what you'd expect, my dear  
__Not the shadows at the park  
__-Just the moon, drawing near_

_I saw a boggart, first of the year  
__-See the full moon's rising arc?  
__Tell me, Darling, what you fear_

_I will tell you-trust your ears  
__A wolf bit me when night was stark  
__-Just as moon was drawing near_

_I should not have allowed you here  
__Teeth gave me my own Dark Mark  
__I'll tell you, Darling, what I fear  
__-Just the moon, drawing near_

--page 44, _Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature_

The next full moon arrived almost before Draco was aware of it. "I'd like you to stay with the Longbottoms again. I've heard a rumour that my house is being watched."

"And you didn't think to mention this before now?"

"Hopefully it will be sorted out in a few weeks. I assume you can now Apparate yourself there and back again?"

"Yes," Draco said.

"Then why don't you come home… not the day after the moon, you've seen by now that not only am I much use on those days, I'm also more likely to get visitors. But the next day, the 20th, come back anytime. Apparate straight into the house, just in case it _is_ being watched."

"_If_ I come back."

"Yes, of course," Lupin said, sounding distracted.

When Draco arrived, "Nev" came running out of the house to meet him. "Guess what?"

Draco couldn't keep from sneering, "I couldn't possibly imagine." At Neville's hurt look, he said, "Fine. What?"

"Your new wand is here!"

"_What_?" Draco stopped dead in his tracks.

"The wandmaker sent Gran a message that she didn't want to send it by owl, too many owls are being intercepted. But Remus doesn't have his house on the Floo Network, and I guess she knew you'd be coming here. It arrived a couple hours ago."

They hurried into the house, where Mrs. Longbottom was waiting, holding a thin box. Draco took it and carefully opened the lid. His new wand.

He'd almost forgotten the warmth that tingled inside the fingers when picking up one's wand the first time. A rush of magic washed over him, but instead of hummingbirds or shooting stars spitting out the end, a simple blocking shield formed for a few moments, then dissolved.

"Wow," said Neville. "It's pretty rare to have a nonsolid spell like that come out when you test a wand, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Mrs. Longbottom agreed, not sounding nearly as impressed. "Mr. Elliott seems to have a knack for Defense."

"The wandmaker said almond is good for self-protection," Draco said, determinedly not thinking about what else the old witch had said about it.

"Appropriate for these times, then," said Mrs. Longbottom. "Mr. Elliott is of age, correct?" while giving Draco a sharp look.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

Not addressing him, she said, "Neville, he can try it out in the dueling room."

"Your house has a dueling room?" Draco asked when she'd walked away.

"Yeah. My dad convinced her to install it when he was in the Auror Academy. I've been practicing in there, just casting spells and such. But it will a lot more useful practicing with someone."

They didn't spend all that much time dueling each other, however. They mostly cast spells at training dummies, Neville to practice his spell work and Draco to get used to the feel of his new wand. He was annoyed to find that Neville's spell were stronger in terms of sheer power, especially when cast with emotion behind them, and Neville was also far too fond of practicing his Patronus, in Draco's opinion. He'd never been too concerned about fending off Dementors before; they answered to the Dark Lord. But Draco was by far a faster spellcaster, and faster on his feet to boot.

They stayed in the dueling room until it was time for supper and by unspoken agreement returned there after eating as well. As they trudged up the stairs to bed, Draco initiated conversation for the first time. "Do you have any brooms? Mr. Lupin doesn't, and I've missed flying."

Neville's face reddened. "Sorry. Gran thinks I'm too clumsy to be allowed to fly."

Draco supposed he ought to give the other boy some kind of reassurance, as "Nev" seemed to consider them friends, and that seemed the kind of thing friends did. But he had no idea what to say, so they finished the trip in silence. Draco slept well that night, and only looked out the window at the moon once.

The next day Neville decided to explore the closed wing of the house and asked Draco if he wanted to come along. Draco saw no alternative but to agree. It was eerie walking through the silent rooms, somehow made worse by the charm that kept the furniture free of dust and the windows clear. Draco sensed a sort of malevolence from the rooms; that the rooms were waiting for absent Longbottoms and wanted him gone.

He paused to examine a stained glass window in one of the rooms, while Neville walked ahead into the adjoining room. It was a fine piece; Draco knew enough abut the process to know that creating moving-picture stained glass was notoriously difficult, but the unicorn in the window lightly tossed its head, light shining through the glaze of gold and green and rose. From the next room, Draco heard a choked cry, then "Riddikulus!"

When he reached the other room, a bizarre sight met his eyes. Neville stood in the room's center, wand raised. Cowering before him were Master Snape (in a dress, with a handbag and a hat with a stuffed vulture on it) and Draco's Aunt Bellatrix—before Draco's eyes shrinking into a doll with his aunt's features. "Riddikulus!" Neville shouted again, though his tone carried more ferocity than amusement.

But it was enough. The two figures flew back into the wardrobe Draco only now noticed, and with a flick of his wand Neville locked the door. "A boggart," Neville unnecessarily explained.

"I can see that. Who are they?"

Some of the strain left Neville's features, though he still looked tense. "The woman was Bellatrix Lestrange." He didn't explain who she was, having already done so during Draco's last visit. "This is the first time she's been part of my boggart. The man was Professor Snape."

"The professor you don't like, right?"

"It's more than dislike. I _hate_ him. He's a Death Eater. He killed the Headmaster. He's nearly as bad as You-Know-Who to me." For a little while Neville seemed lost in his own thoughts, then noticed Draco's lack of response. "Let's get out of here, maybe go back to the dueling room. I'll tell Gran about the boggart later."

Sleep didn't come quite so easily that night. Draco's mind kept returning to his own boggart third year. He wasn't completely sure what it would be, as Lupin didn't have the Slytherin students confront the boggart individually as he had in the other classes. The excuse he'd given was that the Gryffindor third years had destroyed the boggart "in their enthusiasm," and he'd been unable to locate another.

All the Slytherins had seen through that flimsy excuse, of course. Well—Crabbe and Goyle hadn't, but everyone else had. Clearly it was another example of a teacher prejudiced against Slytherin House, who believed the Slytherins incapable. That, combined with Lupin's shabby clothes and Master Snape's obvious dislike, was enough to turn the whole house against the new teacher before the first day of classes was over.

But Lupin _had_ talked about boggarts, and asked the class to imagine their worst fears. Almost unbidden, an imagine rose in Draco's mind. He saw a crowded party, full of respectable purebloods, but no one acknowledged him. It was as though he was invisible, and also mute, because although he asked questions and demanded answers, even tried to strike one of the partygoers, none of them noticed his presence. Even his own parents, exchanging idle small talk with the Minister, never turned around.

Now, lying in his comfortable guest room, the same scene played out in Draco's mind. He had no idea how to make the chilling isolation _funny_. It was all Lupin's fault for not teaching the Slytherins properly.

The next day after a late lunch Draco Apparated home to Lupin's cottage. Lupin wasn't in the main room or the bedroom or bathroom. Draco knocked on the office door once and then again louder, but there was no answer. After some time, Draco concluded that Lupin wasn't home. A frisson of fear went through him—what if Lupin was dead?—but he pushed the thought away and tried studied the office door.

This was his chance to gather intelligence on the Order of the Phoenix. Raising his wanted, he incanted, "_Alohomora_!" Nothing happened. Draco tried another unlocking charm, then another, and when he tried the most complex one he knew, a small sign materialized on the door, reading, "I asked you not to go in this room." The sign didn't say Draco's name, be it his true name or his alias, but it was obvious Lupin was addressing him. Draco flushed, feeling chastised.

That afternoon he tackled the runes essay again, using his former textbook as a reference. Eventually he gathered that the Dark Lord somehow set up interconnecting runes of power and protection, then siphoned off the magic making them up. Runes, wrote Doge, were not meant to be used in this way. Most of the runes the Dark Lord used were so powerful because they weren't meant to be contained in a singe human body. The Dark Lord managed to contain them, but the magic began to warp his body; stretched him, his long, thin arms and fingers no longer quite in the correct proportions. And around this time people began to notice his eyes had a tint of red, more pronounced when he was angry.

Draco's Glamour fell in the mid-afternoon on August 22nd. While it was nice to see the correct features in the mirror again, without the disguise Draco felt acutely vulnerable. Jacob Elliott was inoffensive, already a victim of the war. Draco Malfoy was hunted by the Light and the Dark.

He still read the newspaper, but was getting tired of reading about Death Eater attacks and that seemed to be all the paper covered these days. And he was in a sour mood after reading about the Quidditch League being disbanded. Between dead players and players joining one side or the other, there weren't really enough people on the teams for full games. And no one was going to see the matches anyway.

Lupin returned that night, Apparating directly into the cottage's main room, holding a bowl of something that smelled delicious. He looked, as always, like a man with one foot already in the grave. Draco silently got up from the sofa and Lupin sank down onto it, eyes slowly closing. Draco rescued the bowl—of stew?—before Lupin lost his grip on it, and put it on the table.

It looked like Lupin had been beaten, not only by a werewolf (himself or another?) but by people as well. He breathed shallowly and though he'd opened his eyes slightly when Draco approached, he didn't appear to be truly aware of his surroundings. Sighing, Draco conjured a blanket—a tasteful one, not like those atrocious ones he'd seen after the last two full moons—and covered the older man.

That night, he dreamed of the respectable party again, but this time Lupin was there too, bruised and weak, and no one acknowledged him either. Lupin made eye contact with Draco and nodded, and Draco felt a crushing relief that someone could see him. He woke with a start out of the dream, feeling confused and wishing he knew what it might mean.

The next morning, Lupin was more alert. "I'm glad to see you made it back safely," he told Draco, ad Draco frowned.

"I can't say the same for you. What happened?"

"The last two months I've gone to speak with groups of werewolves about the war. The group last month was disinclined to join either side, but as it turned out, the pack I went to speak with this month had already decided to ally themselves with Voldemort. Needless to say, they weren't very pleased with me."

Going in amongst a group of wild werewolves struck Draco as incurably stupid, even if one was already a werewolf. "You're not going to go again, are you?" he asked.

"I've been persuaded not to," Lupin agreed. "The stew is from Dora, by the way. You're welcome to have some, though I have to warn you that cooking does not appear to be one of her natural talents."

"You've been staying with her?" Draco felt angry at the answering nod; here he'd been imagining Lupin dead in a forest somewhere, and he was at his _girlfriend's_ house.

"Thank you," Lupin said, examining the conjured blanket, but Draco did not respond as he stalked away.

It was at supper a few days later when Draco finally decided to speak up about the topic weighing on his mind. "Longbottom came across a boggart when I was there," he offered.

"Oh? And was it still Severus?"

"Him and Bellatrix Lestrange."

Lupin put his fork down, looking thoughtful. "Did you have to face the boggart as well, then?"

"No, Longbottom drove it back on his own." When Lupin nodded and picked up his fork again, Draco felt his irritation swell. "It's a good thing too, since you never taught my class as well as you did his!"

Lupin looked surprised at that. "When I was in school the Slytherin students did not battle a boggart until their fifth year. I followed my former professor's practice."

"Because you think we weren't as good as the other houses!"

"Not at all. I was quite impressed by the students of each house, especially considering how little my predecessors taught. But your house's strengths are different, Mr. Malfoy. The Hufflepuffs prize friendship and loyalty. I knew they would help and support each other. The Ravenclaws are always eager to test themselves and analyzed their fears. The Gryffindors—well, for most Gryffindors of that age, the greatest fear is a physical threat of some kind; a spider, a Banshee… I count myself fortunate that the boggart did not turn into a werewolf for any of them. Gryffindors are comfortable challenging their fears or acting despite their fears. I was not remotely surprised when they finished the boggart off.

"I am certain your class could have defeated it, Mr. Malfoy. But I believed that your class would be uncomfortable revealing your worst fears. Was I wrong?"

Draco opened his mouth and closed again. "No…."

"Slytherins don't tend to have the same kinds of friendships that the other houses prize. Rather, you have alliances with likeminded people. To reveal your greatest fear to someone you're not an ally of would be extremely poor tactics. But by Fifth Year, you are for the most part mature enough to understand that if you use the knowledge of someone's boggart against them, they will return the favour. Besides, it's often a subject on the O.W.L.s."

Draco cleared his throat. "So… it wasn't because you thought we were incapable?" he clarified.

"Not at all. I am no seer, so it would be difficult for me to somehow think you were behind the other houses before we even had our first class."

"Oh." And some of Draco's righteous anger drained away. He only poked at his potatoes a little longer before excusing himself.

On September 1st the _Prophet_ ran a story about the Hogwarts Express running as usual, except for the three teams of Aurors accompanying it and the Emergency-Authorized Portkeys for the students deemed at "high risk." Draco wondered a little at not getting a Hogwarts letter during the summer, but then decided McGonagall must have seen to it that his name was removed from the Hogwarts list of students. Stupid really, since they could have put a tracking charm on the owl and followed it to him. But McGonagall was a Gryffindor, so what could one expect?

Potter and the Weasel and the mudblood were not going back to Hogwarts. The writers at the _Prophet_ seemed torn about whether to declare Potter was going after the Dark Lord or whether to claim the three were running away. In typical _Prophet_ fashion, they had various articles with each interpretation of Potter's absence, sometimes even within the same issue.

He'd received a letter from Longbottom the last day of August. The other was going back to Hogwarts, and Draco had the sense that Neville was going off to his own death. Draco knew the battle would not be finished until Potter was dead and Hogwarts broken under the Dark Lord's hand. Though the tone of the letter was light, Draco read between the lines and saw the same thoughts. But the closing was direct: "And if Hogwarts is attacked, I will be one of the people defending it." _Not if_, Draco thought. _When_.

On September 12th Draco and Lupin were eating lunch when with a rush of warmth, a small silver animal, a wolf, materialized on the table. Smaller than a Patronus yet still resembling one, it lasted only until Lupin looked upon it before dissolving into mist. "I have to go," Lupin said, the color draining from his face, and before Draco could ask a single question he Apparated, leaving Draco alone with their half-finished meal.

The Order had summoned him—that much was easy to guess. Had the Dark Lord merely waited for Hogwarts to fill with students before attacking it? Or was the attack elsewhere? Or was it not an attack at all, but some other Order business? The hours stretched out and Draco was unable to concentrate on his book or the spells he was working on. Surely he would know, would somehow feel it in his heart if Hogwarts fell.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Lupin Apparated home again with a crack. His expression was grave and his robes were slashed in a long line across his chest, the fabric near the injury bloody.

"What happened?" Draco asked, his voice low. He followed Lupin into the bedroom and watched as the other man took out a clean shirt and robe.

"Death Eaters tracked Harry and his friends to an abandoned house in Suffolk, and thirty of them attacked." He shook his head. "Three against thirty. They sent a cry for help to Dora, and she alerted the rest of the Order."

"Potter is_ dead?_"

* * *

(cackles) 

The poem at the start of this section was a villanelle.


	8. Neighbours

Neither the Patil sisters nor the universe they inhabit belong to me.

8 - Neighbours

Sonnet 907  
_In memory_

_High night it wound to Cana's quiet town  
__High magic it did fill the sights and air  
__But soon for Cana 'twould come tumbling down  
__Attacked, and slashed, left crumbled on the stair  
__The next full moon, a monster's face did form  
__And fingertips, they melted into claws  
__Though silvered fur in theory kept him warm  
__His friends gave pity not; but they did pause  
__His neighbo__u__rs that same night did drive him out  
__With wands and spears and bloodlust ringing cries  
_"_Be gone, beast, we'll not have your kind about"  
__See Cana, how alone he weeps and cries  
__The circle turns, as life shifts up and down  
__And Cana in the lake himself did drown_

--page 67, _Full_ _Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature_

When Lupin did not immediately answer, Draco repeated, "Potter is dead?"

"No."

If Potter was alive then why was Lupin so upset? Draco guessed, "But someone died. The weas—Weasley? Or Granger?"

"Ron jumped into the path of a Killing Curse meant for Harry." Before Draco even had time to react to the words, Lupin went on, "I have to go—I have to be with them. I'll be back tomorrow or the next day, or—well, before the moon, in any case." As he spoke he summoned a bag from the other room and packed more clothes inside. Then he was gone again.

Draco sank down on the bed. In a strange way, because of their enmity, Draco knew Ronald Weasley better than he knew some of the people in his own house. He could predict how Weasley could react and what words would set him off better than he could with Nott.

He'd imagined Weasley dead often enough, nearly as much as he'd imagined Potter so. He'd imagined the redhead bloody and screaming while the Dark Lord looked on and laughed. But the reality felt quite different. He wondered where the body was, if Granger had closed her boyfriend's sightless eyes, if Potter had carried his friend's body away from the scene of the battle.

Shaking off the melancholy thoughts, Draco retrieved the box of essays and took them out to the main room. Unable to concentrate on the complex dissection of runes, he turned to the next essay. The first words had a familiar tone and Draco was unsurprised to see that this was Lupin's article. His former teacher wrote in much the same way as he spoke, measured, logical and distant.

The emotional detachment somehow made the rituals described in the essay all the more horrific. For the essay was all about sacrificial rituals, the darkest of the dark sort of magic. The lifeblood of a virgin, the hearts of ten children, Lupin laid out what was known about each ritual. He wrote of a theory of ancient warriors—that eating the eyes of a fallen enemy gave one their eyesight, that eating the enemy's heart gave one their strength. If only this essay was a difficult to understand as the runic one!

He read about another ritual, one done under the gaze of the full moon. Three werewolves were needed, killed by stripping the pelts from them. As the mortally injured animal transformed back into human form and died, the dark energy of the werewolf curse was released. The one in command of the ritual could, by speaking the correct words, summon that energy into himself.

Draco read through the whole essay, despite his growing disgust, but as he finished it he had to resist the urge to vomit. It was one thing to cleanse the Wizarding World of dirty blood, but those rituals—they were sick! He began to understand why the essays referred to the Dark Lord losing his humanity.

Had the Dark Lord really done all those things? It was just speculation, after all. But Draco cast his mind back the Dark Lord's face—as Draco first knelt before Him, as the recruits listened to Slytherin's warning, even as Draco was being punished for his failures. He hadn't noted the Dark Lord's expression at the time, lost in his body's pain, but now Draco could recall flashes and slightly blurred features. He recalled the look of bliss and twisted pleasure as his Lord tortured him.

Yes, he believed the Dark Lord had performed some or all of those rituals. Admitting that to himself felt physically painful. He didn't want to imagine the man—the Lord—Draco was brought up to follow doing such things. He wondered if Master Snape knew about those rituals, then reflected that Snape could even have provided assistance in some of them. The very thought made Draco ill.

His dreams that night were strange and frightening. _He was in his Quidditch robes, flying over the pitch at Hogwarts, when he saw the other players weren't moving, just hovering in the air. He was near the Gryffindor goals, so he called to the Weasel, "Taking a little nap, Weasel?" Weasley didn't react and when Draco flew closer, he saw that Weasley was dead, body slumped over his still-floating broom, his eyes wide and empty._

_Panicking, Draco flew across the pitch, seeing Ginny with a slash where her throat should be, blood drenching her robes, flew towards his own team. But instead of his teammate's faces, he saw Master Snape and his father and the Dark Lord. Then they weren't on brooms anymore but in a silvery clearing, and his father said, "You shall kill that one, or you shall no longer be my son."_

_He saw a werewolf and froze, sending a pleading look to Master Snape. Snape gave him a cold look and said, "Kill it or you shall no longer be my student."_

_He knew the werewolf was Lupin; it could be no other. He thought it recognized him too, but maybe that was just his imagination. The Dark Lord commanded, "Obey me, or you shall no longer be a Slytherin!" Trembling, Draco raised his wand…_

and jolted awake, gasping for air and still shaking. It had seemed so real; he had felt his Quidditch robes flowing in the wind, smelled the blood, felt the way his fingers clenched around his wand as he walked forward. The room was dark and full of shadows, and Draco wished desperately that dawn would come soon. He got no more sleep that night.

Weasley's death was in the _Prophet_ the next day, a small name in the usual list of the victims. There was no real information about how he died, just a note that he was preceded in death by his mother, sister and one of his brothers, and that he was survived by his father and four brothers. Draco wondered if the _Prophet_ didn't know Weasley was Potter's friend or if the Order of the Phoenix had somehow prevented more information from escaping.

Lupin returned the morning of the full moon. He said nothing about where he'd been and Draco didn't ask. At length, Draco said, "Am I going to the Longbottoms' again?"

Lupin roused himself from the cup of coffee he'd been staring into. "No. With Neville back in school, Augusta has other relatives staying with her, relatives I don't trust in the discretion of and with whom I don't believe you'll be safe, even as Jacob Elliott."

"So I'm staying here?" Lupin nodded. "And you'll be here as well?" Another nod.

Draco tried telling himself that he wasn't nearly so afraid this time, but it was a lie. He felt the same terror as last time, the same lack of appetite—though he noticed Lupin not eating as well. After the time when they would normally eat supper, Lupin (who had been resting on the sofa much of the day and did not even bother to cook anything) carefully rose and made his way into the kitchen. At his first movement, Draco put his book down and watched. Lupin pushed aside the rug in the kitchen area, revealing a trapdoor. He unlatched and opened it. The door opened facing away from Draco, so he couldn't see anything.

Lupin descended—it looked like he was climbing a ladder down—closing the door behind him. Draco used the toilet and then barricaded himself in his room. The moon rose as it always did and Draco kept his wand poised at the door the whole night, even when his arm began to ache and feel heavy. And much to Draco's surprise, as sunrise ended the cries from below he drifted off to sleep.

When he awoke Draco knew it was late, nearly noon. When he opened the door he didn't know what he would find. But there was Lupin, sitting and slumped against the cupboard under the sink. The cloths were laid out, but Lupin wasn't treating his injuries, just sitting there, his eyes closed. At the sound of the door, he blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes before slowly reaching for a cloth.

Draco silently went into the kitchen and made himself some lunch, acutely aware of each of Lupin's movements. Sitting in his room and eating despite his queasiness, Draco felt as though he could still see each new welt on his former teacher. How many more full moons could Lupin's body take before it gave out completely?

He kept shooting little glances at Lupin as the older man—as the werewolf read the newspaper, arms trembling slightly even under its negligible weight. Lupin seemed unaware of the scrutiny or of the fact that Draco hadn't turned a page in his own book in quite some time. Finally Draco blurted, "I'm very good at Potions."

"I'm sorry?"

"Best in the class, definitely better than the mu—than Granger."

"All right…." Lupin looked perplexed, like he didn't quite know Draco's point. Perhaps he truly was unaware of the jumble of thoughts preoccupying Draco.

Draco drew a breath. "I can make the Wolfsbane Potion."

Lupin's face was unreadable. "That won't be necessary, but thank you."

Relief washed over Draco, and if it was accompanied by the slightest amount of disappointment, it was only because the potion would have been a fine exercise for his skills. "Well, I could. Just wanted to make sure you knew. That I could. Make it, I mean." Why was he getting so flustered?

Lupin finally smiled. "And I appreciate that. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

The smile seemed genuine, and Draco found himself adding, "You can call me Draco, if you want."

Immediately he wanted to take the offer back, but Lupin's eyes lit with real pleasure as he said, "Draco," as though testing the sound of the word. "Thank you, Draco."

Teachers at school called Draco "Mr. Malfoy," but he'd never quite gotten over expecting to see his father behind him when he heard the name. And although the thought was painful, he knew it was almost certain he'd been stricken from the family tapestry by now, to join the likes of Sirius and Regulus Black.

A few weeks later the _Daily_ _Prophet_ had a story of an attack on Diagon Alley which left nearly twenty dead. Now that Hogwarts was back in session, most of the casualties were adults and smaller children, like six-year-old Nicole Barber. But some students were pulled out of Hogwarts by their parents in a desperate, last-ditch effort to keep them safe. That made it all the more ironic that when such students did fall. And one of Draco's classmates did. Parvati Patil, Gryffindor to the end, rushed out into the street to fight the Death Eaters and paid for it with her life. There was no mention of her twin sister, so Draco assumed the more cautious Ravenclaw had survived.

Draco was doing the word puzzle when Lupin emerged from his office. "I'll be back later," Lupin said, and then was gone.

He'd been doing that more and more since the full moon, disappearing for hours at a time with no explanation. Draco wondered at great deal about where Lupin was going and what he was doing. He looked up several more unlocking charms in Lupin's books but always met with the same result. He did not bother asking for details; he knew Lupin would not trust him with any.

And, the thought came swiftly to him, why should he? Lupin knew how Draco longed to return to his place at the Dark Lord's side; Draco was certain of that much. So he didn't know why it should upset him that Lupin did not trust him… but it did.

Lost in his thoughts, Draco didn't hear the approaching footsteps until it was almost too late. It was a distant shout that snapped him to attention. Lupin had suspected the house was being watched—what if it was the Ministry? Or had a Death Eater broken through the wards? Draco closed the book he'd been gazing at without really seeing and put it neatly on the coffee table. Then he went over to the kitchen, keeping below the level of the windows. He could hear other approaching voices now.

Amazed at his own calm, Draco lifted the rug and unlatched the trapdoor, opening it just enough to slip inside. He could only hope that the rug would fall correctly to cover the door as he closed it again; if the trapdoor was exposed…. But now the door was closed and he was plunged into darkness. Nervously licking his lips, Draco raised his wand and whispered a sealing spell on the door. It would not hold against a determined attack by many wizards, but it was all he could do.

He could feel that he was on a ladder, so he descended carefully, wishing he could cast _Lumos_ but thinking it too risky. From above there was a crash and then voices swelling louder, invading the quiet of the cottage. It was difficult for Draco to distinguish individual words, especially as sounds of things crashing covered them.

Was it Death Eaters ransacking the cottage? Draco certainly hoped not. It was common enough for Death Eaters to burn or otherwise destroy the houses of their targets, and Draco doubted his hidden underground room would survive the destruction. On the other hand, if it was the Ministry it meant they suspected something, and it would be obvious to anyone who bothered to look that more than one person lived here.

Another thought struck Draco; what if Lupin returned in the middle of this? Or the invaders waited for him to return? He always Apparated directly to the main room—he would have no warning, and Draco knew no way to send him one.

At length, it grew quieter, and finally Draco could make out no sound at all, even when he stood on the ladder's highest rung to listen. But what if the invaders were waiting silently in ambush? He did not dare to go upstairs yet. A _Lumos_ was probably safe enough, though. Retreating to the bottom of the ladder again, Draco cast the spell, and gaped at the room around him.

It was like something out of a horror story. The room was stark and cold, the walls cement reinforced with steel. And everywhere there were splatters of blood. It streaked along the walls in rusty stains. The floor—where Draco had stood, where he had sat—seemed to have a dull brown-red carpet. Panicking, Draco checked his robes for traces of it, but found none. It was all dry now, a mute testimony to Lupin's actions each full moon.

He could make out the tread of paws on the floor, canine paws, with dots where claws met cement. Draco threw up once, then again, the room closing in around him. He was dizzy, he was horrified. How could Lupin enter this room so calmly? How in Merlin's name was he still alive?

"Draco? Draco?"

Lupin's worried voice was enough to bring Draco back to himself. He somehow managed to unseal the door and called, "Down here!"

A moment later the door was open and light streamed in, and there was Lupin, looking concerned. "Are you alright? Can you make it up the ladder?"

"Of course," Draco sneered, but there was little force behind the words. He cancelled the Lumos on his wand and made his way back up to the rest of the house, blinking when he saw the state it was in. The tables and chairs were broken, the stuffing ripped out of the sofa and covering everything like snow. The bags and jars of food were slashed and broken, particles of flour in the air and juice seeping into the carpet.

The bookcases were empty, charred books scattered all around, and it looked as though someone had taken an axe to the bookcases themselves. Hesitantly, Draco stepped towards the bedroom, and saw it had received the same treatment. The pillows and mattress were slashed, likely with a knife, and downy feathers spilled out of them like guts. The chair and wardrobe were destroyed, the clock taken from the wall and smashed. Clothes lay in a jumble and the floor, and Draco detected a strong odor coming from them.

Lupin's office door was still closed, but the washroom had not escaped the devastation. Openmouthed, Draco turned to Lupin, who had watched him taken in the state of the house. "I'm glad you're all right," Lupin said, and Draco heard the relief in the other man's voice. "For a moment, I was afraid—well, no matter. I'm glad you're all right. Though I'm sorry you had to see…."

See what? The downstairs room? The state of the house? "Who did this?" Draco finally asked.

Lupin nodded to the wall by the front door—now splintered and lying on the ground in pieces. There were messages scrawled across the wall: YOUR KIND NOT WELLCOME HERE and DEATH TO MONSTERS. "I suppose it wasn't the Ministry or Death Eaters watching the house after all," Lupin said quietly. "Just people from the town a few miles away. I'll have to start buying groceries somewhere else, I suppose."

"I don't understand," Draco said, still staring at the messages.

"I think you do. Would you want a werewolf in the neighbourhood?"

"But you haven't hurt any of them, have you?"

"What does that matter?"

What did that matter, indeed. Draco hated werewolves. He didn't enjoy living with one. He wouldn't want one living anywhere near the Malfoy estate, and he could see his father hiring those of the peasant class to drive such an interloper out. So why did he feel some of the hurt that Lupin must surely be feeling, even if none of it showed on his face? And why did Lupin's calm resignation make him feel so angry?

"I've owned this house for quite some time," Lupin was continuing. "Every few years something like this happens, though fortunately I've never come home in the middle of it."

"They shouldn't have done it." Draco was surprised by the vehemence of his own voice. "They shouldn't have. They should know by now that you won't hurt them."

"They're afraid," Lupin said. "The vitriol against werewolves always goes higher yet when people are also afraid of other things. And I cannot blame them. A werewolf gone to the side of Dark is terrifying indeed."

Draco thought of Greyback and knew that Lupin was right. But he said stubbornly, "I can blame them," and offered no further explanation. He didn't have one.

Lupin studied him, but only said, "We shall salvage what we can," and strode to the bathroom, casting spells as he went. Draco didn't know any household repair spells, but he did know a few cleaning charms, and he went about the house casting them. He also cast _Reparo_ on the jars in the kitchen (though he could not magically replace their spilled contents) and the splintered chairs.

The bathroom and kitchen were mostly restored, though there was very little food left, and the bedroom nearly so (the gouges in the wardrobe would be tricky) when night fell. Lupin managed to find a dry package of pasta that had survived the destruction, although without any sauce it was incurably bland.

"I'm sorry about your books," Draco offered. He also wondered how he would spend his days, with nothing to read or study.

"Don't be." Lupin smiled at Draco's puzzled look. "I spelled them to be flame-retardant. Their appearance now is an illusion I set, so the people who tried to burn them would go away satisfied. There may be a little damage, but not much. Over the next few days I can teach you how to restore them." His smile faded. "I'm more concerned about the lost food…."

Although Draco had dished up too much pasta, he forced himself to finish the rest of it. He could not throw away any food, not after seeing Lupin's distant expression. There was nothing he could say.

The next day, Draco paused from restoring books to take the _Prophet_ first. Skipping over the headline (WHERE IS POTTER?) he went straight to the list of the dead, and gasped softly at one of the names.

Lupin looked up. "What is it?"

"Padma Patil is dead. Her sister's death was in the paper yesterday."

"Yes," Lupin said heavily. "I heard about it yesterday."

"Was it an attack, like for Parvati? It doesn't say."

Lupin hesitated, searching Draco's face. "She killed herself."

Draco stared down at the page, the letters seeming to rearrange themselves into something foreign and impossible to understand. He'd heard that a Slytherin upperclassman had killed himself, a year or two before Draco came to Hogwarts. That explained why the paper gave no details of her death, though. "Why?" he asked. But not waiting for an answer, he threw the newspaper aside and picked up another battered book. "_Finite Incantum!_"

* * *

So, Ron bought it. Did you see that coming? And just so you know, I am incredibly bad at writing sonnets, and thus am far more proud of the one starting this chapter than I deserve to be. : ) 


	9. Charms

Neither James Potter nor the universe he inhabited belong to me.

9 – Charms

"_Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now…"_

"_Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead-"_

-_Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

Restoring the books was a simple enough process, but a bit time-consuming. First, Draco cast _Finite Incantum_ to remove the illusion of burning. Then he cast _Scourgify_. After that Lupin insisted that he flip through the book looking for damaged pages. Finally, the charms to protect the book from fire and moisture had to be recast. Draco took a few hours to really get accustomed to the new spells, but soon the two were working in companionable silence.

Draco internally groaned when his first spell revealed that his next book was _Hogwarts: A History_. By far the most time-consuming part of restoring the books was flipping through the pages, and the history book was famously long. But with a sigh he cast _Scourgify_ and opened the book, only to sit back against his chair in his surprise.

A hole was cut in the center of the pages, and a small golden statue of a stag was nestled inside. Curious, he lifted it out, resting it on his palm, and as soon as it touched his hand it became animated. He bit back a smile as the tiny figure tossed its head and pranced in place on his palm. Draco asked, "What is this?"

Lupin looked over and froze. "Where was that?"

"Inside _Hogwarts: A History_. I wondered why you had so many copies. Are there surprises inside the other ones too?"

Lupin looked briefly amused. "If there are, you'll need to find them on your own." He moved to the chair next to Draco's and held out a hand. "May I?"

As soon as his hand was next to Draco's, the little stag jumped from one hand to the other with a running start. It looked up at Lupin for a moment, almost seeming sentient, then resumed its prancing and playing. Draco asked again, "What is it?"

"It was a gift."

"I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it."

"My friend made it by hand."

Draco examined the statue again. "She's an artist, I assume? The detail is exquisite."

"No on both counts. James cast _Engorgio_ on it so it would be big enough for him to see what he was doing, then returned it to its original size."

"James?" Draco suddenly knew who Lupin referred to, but it was still a jolt to see Lupin nod.

"Yes. James Potter."

"Why gold? Silver would be easier to work with."

"Don't tell me you've forgotten I'm a werewolf," Lupin said with dry humour.

"Hardly," Draco sneered. "But I saw you touching silver sickles, and thought the whole silver thing was just an old wives' tale."

Lupin shrugged. "For only a brief contact, there's no problem. Prolonged exposure to my skin gives me a mild rash. Irritating, but not life-threatening. Funny how myths get started, isn't it?"

Nodding his understanding, Draco asked, "Why a stag?"

"That's a long story."

"I don't have anywhere else to be."

That made Lupin smile, but when he spoke Draco didn't see the connection between his words and the small golden stag tossing its head. "Are you aware of a Death Eater called Wormtail?"

"Yes…."

"What do you know about him?"

Draco frowned. "Not very much. He's an Animagus, a rat, so that's where his name comes from I suppose. My father doesn't think much of him. I don't think Master Snape does either."

"His real name is Peter Pettigrew."

Draco searched his memory, for the name seemed familiar, then blinked in surprise. "Wasn't Pettigrew killed by Sirius Black?"

"What do you know about Sirius Black?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"Trust me. What do you know about Sirius Black, Draco?"

Gathering his thoughts, Draco said, "He fought for the Light during the Dark Lord's first rise. He was stricken from the Black family tree. Everyone thought he betrayed the Potters, even my father, but he really didn't. Last year my aunt killed him."

Lupin's mouth tightened at the recital of facts, but he said calmly, "Did you know he was an Animagus?"

"Oh, right. A dog, I think."

Lupin nodded. "His form looked a bit like a Grim. He thought it very funny."

"I still don't see what this has to do with the statue James Potter gave you."

"James was an Animagus, too. His form was a stag. They all became Animagi for me." Seeing Draco's incomprehension, he explained, "A werewolf's bite is only infectious to humans. While I might attack other animals, I can not give them my curse. This was before the invention of Wolfsbane, and my friends feared for me. They studied to become Animagi to keep me company during full moons."

"My father had me tested once, to see if I had Animagus potential," Draco said. "But I didn't."

"Few people do. It's amazing to me even now that all three of them had the gift, and what's more, that they mastered it during Fifth Year, before they even took their O.W.L.s. Two of them ended up using their Animagus forms for far more than our full moon romps, of course. Sirius used Padfoot to protect his mind from the Dementors, to escape Azkaban and live on the run. Peter has used Wormtail to serve Voldemort. But James only ever used Prongs to keep me company, and I suspect, to entertain Harry as a baby."

Draco put his hand next to Lupin's, and the stag exuberantly leapt back to him. "The animation has lasted a long time." James Potter had been dead for nearly sixteen years.

"This gift wasn't just a toy. We lived in dangerous times. I kept figurines of Padfoot and Wormtail on my nightstand as well as Prongs, and all three of them had a figurine to stand for me as well."

"Of a werewolf?"

"That would have been a bit obvious, don't you think? No, I was represented by an ordinary wolf, and I argued against even that. I was overridden though."

"What did they do?"

"We charmed them to stay animated as long as the one who charmed them still lived. When one of us was in danger, his figurine heated up and emitted a noise to get our attention."

"What noise?"

"We each used something different. Padfoot barked. Wormtail squeaked. Prongs snorted, and Moony—that was my wolf—howled. Wormtail took his figurines back a few months before the end, ostensibly to fix them. They kept going hot and squeaking when he told us he was in meetings at work. It's obvious now that he was doing something dangerous in his capacity as a Death Eater, but we were all so trusting then."

"Gryffindors," Draco snorted.

"I suppose that's true. He also rather cleverly got Padfoot and me to suspect each other. I became to intent on picking apart Sirius's suspicious behavior—and he mine, though I didn't know it then—that we both missed the warning signs."

"And Potter?" Draco asked, looking down at the little stag. Prongs, Lupin had called him.

"I believe he didn't know what to think. You must try to understand, Draco. The world was crashing down around us then. The Blacks was far from the only family with members on opposing sides. James and Lily were, like all of us, scarcely more than children themselves, with Voldemort personally hunting them and their baby. I only hope that their few days in Godric's Hollow before Peter betrayed them were peaceful, happy ones."

"If the animation was tied to them being alive, then why is it moving?"

Lupin gently picked the figurine up, ignoring the kicking legs, and put it on the coffee table. Immediately it froze, a simple statue once again. "I knew the instant James was dead. I was conducting research when Prongs started snorting. He was so hot he slightly burnt my hand, forcing me to drop him.

"He ran around the table, very agitated. When I remembered where James lived, I realized the Fidelius Charm had failed. I contacted Dumbledore and was about to Apparate to Godric's Hollow when Prongs froze, just as you see him now." Lupin picked the statue up and it instantly started moving again, and when it was laid on Draco's palm it got to its feet right away.

"Feel how cold it is? Now it is nothing more than a toy, one that activates when touching human skin. I couldn't possibly throw it away, but it was too painful to keep out in the open. I'd forgotten I had it, actually. I should send it to Harry."

Draco didn't want to talk about Harry Potter. "You said Pettigrew took his back. What about Black's?"

"In Azkaban, one's life and soul are always in mortal danger. Padfoot continuously barked. I believed Sirius was the traitor and couldn't bear it."

And then Draco understood. "You had it melted."

Lupin nodded but said no more. He looked a little lost as he surveyed the mostly restored books. "Excuse me," he said, and retreated to his office. Draco put Prongs on the table again and watched him freeze. The little animal wasn't nearly so entertaining now that he knew the whole story, but he didn't want to pack it away again either. So with a sigh he turned back to the book.

As the last volume was returned the shelf, the house returned to normal. Lupin was gone for a good part of each day now, and on one trip took the statue of Prongs with him in a pocket. He always came out to tell Draco he was leaving, but never said when he would be back, or even if he would be. After Draco made a comment about the lack of food on the table, Lupin silently brought back a new cookbook to join the mostly-restocked cupboards.

The full moon was on the 16th. Lupin went downstairs. Draco went into his room, taking along the box of essays. Once the howls and screams and thumps started, it was impossible to concentrate on the intricacies of runes. He idly pages over some of the unread essays, looking for an easier read. One of them began:

_It is said that long ago Charms were divided into three classes. One class, the largest, was of what was known as "Living Charms." Nearly all the Charms we know today fall under this classification. The other two classes were far more obscure, even in ancient times. One class is best described as "Protection Charms." One of the few Protection Charms not lost to the ages is the Fidelius Charm. The final class was known as "Dark Charms," and its practitioners were so feared, it was immediately outlawed by the earliest known wizarding governments. It is widely believed by Charms experts, including myself, that the three modern Unforgivable curses are derived from Dark Charms._

Draco looked at the name of the author and winced; this was Lily Potter's essay. Below, the werewolf raged. Pulling his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, Draco continued.

_It seems entirely possible that Voldemort used the power of Dark Charms to increase his power and prolong his life. The question we then must ask ourselves is this: how did Voldemort obtain the knowledge necessary to perform such Charms? It is my belief that he found an ancient Egyptian scroll in the magical Library of Alexandria which was written in Parseltongue. I believe that Voldemort combed the globe for any Parseltongue text he could find, but a colleague in Alexandria confirmed his presence there, and the disappearance of an ancient text no one could recognize as a specific language, let alone read. If we accept that this Parseltongue book of Dark Charms exists, what then? We do not have the book; even if we did, none among our Order speaks Parseltongue; even if someone did, I do not believe the book would give counters to the Dark Charms._

_The answer, I believe, lies in the realm of Protection Charms. Since entering the Wizarding World, I have observed that one basic scientific principle cannot be denied, even by magic: that each action inherently has an opposite. The opposite of most of our charms and transfigurations is the simple "Finite Incantum," but it is not true of all our wand use. We use "Alohomora" to undo the simplest class of locking spells, different words to banish and to summon._

_A single passage in one book is what led me to my idea. _The Phoenix Charms_ is one of the most valued texts in the archives of the Headmaster's Library at Hogwarts. It does not belong to the current Headmaster, and it is unclear how it was acquired by a former headmaster (or even a Founder. For if it is genuine, it predates them as well). It is a well-known fable that Merlin, upon his death, was reborn from his own ashes as a phoenix. The book purports to be written by Merlin's lover, the witch Nimue, and that Merlin-phoenix was joined by another phoenix, with both dictating the information to her._

_Nimue writes that she was able to write the entire text in Phoenixsong, much as the book Voldemort used was written in Parseltongue, that she spent the rest of her days trying to translate the book into the common tongue, to hide both the translated and original parts in different places around the land, and that the scroll before her comprised only the smallest part of the knowledge of the Phoenix._

_Nimue's fate is lost to time, and it is likely that the book was kept through the ages by Headmasters who did not truly believe in its veracity. And then, not so long ago, the Fidelius Charm was rediscovered. The Fidelius Charm--which Nimue describes in _The Phoenix Charms_ to the last detail. What's more, Nimue refers to the Fidelius as the counter to a Dark Charm which, "seeks out and reveals the caster's enemies."_

_Protection Charms to counter Dark ones; love to counter hate; light to banish darkness. We may be unable to study the resource Voldemort used, but it is my utmost belief if we seek out the works of Nimue, if we search the globe as Voldemort did, we may yet find protection from evil in all its guises—even from the Killing Curse itself._

_For the remainder of this essay, I shall examine the contents of _The Phoenix Charms_, laying out the theory of its magic, how I believe it would act in practice (with limited speculation about the Dark Charm against which it defends), and finally, discuss the Fidelius Charm, the one charm in the book we positively know works._

Advanced Charms theory was something Draco had no real exposure to; Charms at Hogwarts revolved around practical applications. The start of the essay was interesting, though. Or was that partly due to his fascination with its author? For he could admit to himself at least that he found it fascinating to read the words of Lily Potter. Words he was certain Harry Potter had never seen.

And if she was correct about Protection Charms, that could open up a whole new realm of magic to explore. Could Voldemort know the Protection Charm that did the impossible and blocked the Killing Curse? It seemed unlikely; the Protection Charms as Potter described them were the lightest of the light, and the more Light the spell, the more difficult it was for someone with blood on his hands. Perhaps there was also a Dark Charm to block _Avada Kedavra_.

The werewolf had left off its howling now, and was whimpering and snarling. Draco was reminded of when one of his fathers's hunting dogs was injured, lashing out against the gamekeeper assigned to care for it. He remembered how cold his father looked watching the struggle, how Lucius ordered the dog be put down if it hadn't improved in the next week. Draco never did find out what happened to it.

Night passed into day, and Draco felt secure enough to take a nap. It was nearly noon when he woke, so it was a bit surprising to not see Lupin in the kitchen when Draco came out. The trapdoor was closed, the rug that covered it still pushed aside.

Something felt off. Lupin never traveled anywhere or spent time outside the day after the full moon, nor did he sit in his office. Once he'd cleaned his injuries and used some sort of salve on them, he rested on the couch. A shiver went down Draco's spine when he deduced where Lupin had to be.

_Alohomora_ unlocked the trapdoor. It was a bit pointless, really, as the magic didn't keep the werewolf in and who would be stupid enough to open the door when they heard a werewolf within? But no matter—Draco was just glad it wasn't the locking charm Lupin used on his office.

Even with his wand casting light, Draco couldn't see much beyond the ladder. Steeling himself, he descended. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the room was even worse than he remembered. Maybe that was because of the motionless, naked figure slumped in the far corner.

"Lupin?"

There was no response. After a moment of silent horror at the sight, Draco felt for a pulse. He knew there was a spell that would give feedback on Lupin's injuries, but he was no medi-wizard. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding at the presence of a pulse, sluggish though it was.

Next, Draco tried to figure out which among the multitude of scratches and bites might be life-threatening. There was one injury that caught his eye right away, a deep gouge running from the inside of Lupin's elbow down to his wrist, still bleeding freely. Draco resolved in that moment to read Lupin's two books on first aid. He hated feeling so helpless and not knowing what to do. He managed to conjure a thick white cloth—he didn't know the words to conjure a bandage—and pressed it to the wound, wincing as blood immediately began to seep into it.

He didn't know how to make the _Levitocorpus_, which hovered unconscious patients horizontally, work to get Lupin up the ladder. So he hauled his former teacher up and over his shoulder, disturbed at how light the other man was. He'd always assumed that the influence of the werewolf was what made Lupin appear so sickly, but now guessed that the man was severely underweight. It was an awkward, slow process to get Lupin back to the main part of the house, but somehow he managed it. Without even pausing to think about it, Draco brought Lupin into the bedroom and carefully laid him down.

Draco's shirt was sticky with blood—the blood of a werewolf, a tiny, panicked mental voice said—but Draco paid that voice no heed. He conjured another cloth to replace the first, but could not escape the sense that Lupin was slipping away from him. In the midst of Draco's confusion, there was a crack of Apparition, and a startled voice said, "Who the bloody hell are you?"

* * *

The idea of a hollowed-out copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ is regrettably not mine. There's one in RossWrock's delightful (but sadly, unfinished as of yet) story, _Harry Potter and the Power of Time_. And I'm sorry if the PoA quote at the start was a little off. I don't have the books with me, so my resources (memory, the movies and the HP Lexicon) sometimes just aren't enough.

I'm writing chapter 17 right now, and it will be either the last or second-to-last chapter, I think. So we're right about the halfway point.


	10. Slytherin's Warning

When I see a Sorting Hat-style song in fanfics, I often don't read it (because they're often terrible). However, I hypocritically hope you will read the poem in this chapter. It's not really essential to the plot, but it _is_ where I got the title for this story (and, incidentally, is the first thing I wrote, long before I had an actual plot worked out). It doesn't scan _perfectly_, but I think I come reasonably close to emulating JKR's style.

Neither Tom Riddle nor the universe he inhabits (inhabited?) belong to me.

10 – Slytherin's Warning

_We are sad to report the death yesterday of famed wizarding artist Janice Holzbauer. Janice was well-known for her innovations in the charms cast upon magical paints. It was often said of her portraits that they "returned their subjects to a life of sorts, just as friends and family liked to remember them being." Ironically, Janice never drew a self-portrait, and refused the offers of other artists who hoped to do so. As Janice was only 89, there will be an inquiry into the cause of death. For now, however, we extend our sympathies to her family and friends._

_-The Daily Prophet_, April 25, 1951

Draco swung around in surprise to face the newcomer, and saw a slender young woman with a heart-shaped face and spiky bubblegum-pink hair. Her wand was pointed straight at him, and for one frozen second Draco thought he'd been found out. But then he processed her words, even as she repeated them. "Who are you?"

"Jacob Elliott," Draco said. "I'll explain later—he needs help."

She still looked suspicious, but moved to the bedside, expression softening when she saw Lupin. Draco tried to follow the rapid string of spells she used, but was unable to focus on them. What caught his gaze was the way Lupin's head lolled to the side, seeming lifeless….

Draco tore his eyes away from the still form and focused on the woman—Dora, he assumed. The Auror. She wasn't as young as he first had thought; the pink hair was misleading and there were little lines around her eyes and mouth, though whether they came from laughter or too many worries, he couldn't say.

Draco conjured another white cloth, and dampened it with _Aguamenti_, wiping away the drying blood from the smaller cuts. Dora gave him a quick, approving smile. Finally she cast what looked like a monitoring charm on Lupin and gestured for Draco to follow her back into the main room. Draco did so, casting a last glance back at Lupin before quietly closing the bedroom door.

Dora waited until Draco used his wand to clean off his clothes, lightly tapping her own wand against her wrist as she watched him. Then she asked for the third time, "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"Jacob Elliott," Draco said, thinking fast. "My parents were killed by werewolves last month and my only remaining family are Dark supporters. I asked Mr. Lupin to hide me, to keep my presence here a secret." He could see that she didn't completely believe him, so he returned, "Can I ask who you are?"

"Oh, right. I'm Tonks." She wasn't Dora? Draco tensed again, and the woman noticed. "What?"

"Mr. Lupin never mentioned a "Tonks." How do you know him?" It seemed unlikely that she was a Death Eater, not with how she'd healed Lupin, but better to be cautious.

Tonks actually smiled a little, though it didn't reach her eyes. "No, he wouldn't have. Remus refuses to call me Tonks, but he's the only one who can get away with calling me Dora. He's my boyfriend." She had no problems with the term "boyfriend," Draco noted.

Better to keep her answering the questions, and not thinking too much about "Jacob Elliott." "And you're a medi-witch?"

"Oh no, not at all. I'm an Auror, so I just know a little First Aid." The wand was tapping against her wrist again; apparently it was a nervous habit. "Remus didn't tell me anyone was here with him."

"Well, good." She looked ready to start throwing hexes, so he backpedaled, "I mean, it's good to know that things I say to him in confidence stays so."

"But he shouldn't have secrets from me, not now."

"Look," Draco said, "If I was a young witch, I agree. But I'm not… inclined that way, and apparently neither is he."

Dora's eyes flashed. "You must not know him very well. I'd trust him with the Muggle Miss Universe. But secrets are dangerous these days."

The muggle reference went completely over Draco's head, so he did his best to meet the Auror's eyes. "I understand your worries. But I'm not here to hurt him." Was that true?

Dora said levelly, "You're hiding something."

"Isn't everyone? Mr. Lupin knows my secrets, and he lets me stay."

"Remus gives everyone the benefit of the doubt." Before Draco could respond, her wand was leveled at his head. "_Levo os!_"

Draco gasped as he felt something hit his Glamour. His hands were still darker than his true skin tone though….

"Oh, Merlin, I'm sorry!" Dora apologized, horrified. Understanding, Draco brought up his hands to cover his false scar, as though ashamed. "Here, I'm sorry, I'll fix it." The last thing Draco wanted was to have the Auror cast more spells at him. He stood and backed up.

"I think you've done quite enough already."

"I'm so sorry!" Dora said again. "I could tell you were wearing a Glamour and sometimes I just don't think." Draco said nothing, and her shoulders slumped. "I'll just go sit with Remus for a while," she said. Draco watched her go, caught between humiliation, even though the scar wasn't really his, and abject relief. His disguise had worked just as it was intended.

Just then, an owl arrived with the paper. Making a quick decision, Draco sat down and wrote a short letter. After taking the _Prophet_ and paying the owl from a dish on the table, Draco tied his letter to its leg. The owl gave him a reproving hoot. "I've added money for the side trip. This letter goes to Augusta Longbottom, at Longbottom Estates." A moment later the owl was gone, flying away on silent wings.

_Mrs. Longbottom,_

_Things cannot go on like this. I have the requisite Potions skill; you surely have all the required plants in your magnificent greenhouses. With your help, I shall brew Wolfsbane, and I will not allow him to dissuade me._

_Jacob Elliott_

For Draco was sure now that pride was the reason Lupin had not agreed to Wolfsbane for this month. It was stupid, and his refusal to accept anything that could be considered charity had nearly cost him his life. Honestly, Gryffindors!

There was a faint beeping from the bedroom, and a second later Dora appeared, wincing a little when she saw him. "Duty calls."

"Has he woken?"

"Not yet. But he should be alright now. And at least I know there's someone here to look after him." It was another apology of sorts, but she didn't seem to expect an answer. "Tell Remus I'll stop by when I can." And she Apparated away.

Draco glanced inside the room, cringing at the magenta and olive bedspread, but chose not to sit at Lupin's bedside. That would just be too awkward for them both. He left the door open though, as he settled in an armchair and unrolled the newspaper. More deaths. Groups sympathetic to the Dark Lord forming in mainland Europe, or at least finally starting to get attention.

On the opinion page, there was a back-and-forth between two editors with differing views. One editor called for the immediate extermination of all werewolves. All werewolves were guaranteed to be working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named anyway, the man argued. Best to round them up and "take care" of them when they looked human, much safer than waiting until they were transformed.

The opposing editor agreed that all werewolves were evil, but balked at killing them when it wasn't the full moon. He suggested that the Ministry set up a camp for the werewolves, in northern Scotland perhaps, and ward it well so the werewolves could not leave. Let the problem "take care" of itself.

Draco put the paper down. The desperation and fear shouted at him from each line. The Statue of Secrecy was breached more often than the Ministry could cover it up, and only the sheer stupidity and inattentiveness of muggles kept the wizarding world from becoming public knowledge. The world was falling apart around them, and all by the will of the Dark Lord. Yes, it was the Dark Lord's aim to clean out the muggle taint on wizarding society, but now Draco had to wonder how much of wizarding society there would be left to save.

Unable to read any more, Draco went to check on Lupin. Lupin still looked awful—amazing that people could feel threatened by this man—but he appeared to now be in a natural sleep, as opposed to unconsciousness. Restless, Draco wandered out again. He reclined on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, eventually drifting off.

_He remembered_. A year and some months ago, the children of the Death Eaters were brought before the Dark Lord. Some of them looked nervous. Draco felt a little nervous excitement himself, but schooled his features into a calm mask. All the children were Slytherins. Draco knew there were recruits from other Houses too, but they would get a different speech. The Slytherins were the special ones, the ones of the Dark Lord's own House.

He remembered two masked and hooded Death Eaters bringing out a painting of Salazar Slytherin. Not that Draco had ever seen an authenticated portrait of the wizard—the greatest of the Hogwarts Four—but this was just how he knew Slytherin looked. The proud, pure features, the pale, aristocratic skin and glittering eyes. He exuded power and prestige. There was a general intake of breath from the gathered Slytherins. This was who the boys wanted to be and the girls wanted to marry.

The portrait was placed on a seat of honour, and one of the Death Eaters said, "All of you are familiar with the Hogwarts Sorting Hat, that tool of Gryffindor." He said "Gryffindor" like a curse word, and the Slytherins hissed. "That gave Ravenclaw an idea. She wrote a riddle no wizard has ever solved, saying only that it would lead to a great treasure; a book of knowledge unparalleled. Slytherin enchanted a portrait of himself. It speaks only to his heir, the Dark Lord, but it has one Song for young Slytherins, one song to wash the slander of the Sorting Hat from your ears. Now Listen."

Slytherin swept his gaze around the room, harsh and unapologetic. Surely a painting couldn't perform Legilimency, but Draco still felt exposed, despite his eagerness. Then the portrait sang, his voice low and pleasing in a contrast to the Sorting Hat's hoarseness.

My Slytherins take notice  
this song is just for you  
Great rewards will lie ahead  
for those who prove they're true.  
Your blood runs pure and ancient  
ambition makes you quick  
but those of most worth to your Lord  
will find it's time to pick;  
Pick now your lucky allies  
in the coming war  
Identify your enemies  
and they shall number four:  
Keen Rowen won't let well alone,  
she'll note your every vice  
Though our plan saves Wizardkind  
she won't accept the price.  
You'll blind her with bureaucracy  
and smother her with facts  
but while the Raven's line does live  
you never may relax.  
You might ignore the Hufflepuffs  
but don't make that mistake  
they'll die in droves before your wand  
all for their savior's sake  
So cultivate their loyalty  
but never let them close  
Helga taught of tolerance;  
they're harder to turn than most.  
Griffins trust nearly as much  
but my snakes beware  
they'll be your staunch opponents  
once they've become aware.  
Move swiftly, serpents, crush them now  
before they can prepare.  
But most of all, my loyal ones,  
the dangers from within  
will bring us down if you don't find  
traitorous Slytherins.  
They're out there, lurking in our midst  
pretending to agree  
and unless you smoke them out  
they'll never let us be.  
So with all haste kill Ravenclaws  
spread blood of Hufflepuff  
stand over Griffins as they die  
but that won't be enough  
Some among you will betray me,  
slip poison in my cup  
Your time is counting down, false friends,  
and soon it will be up.

Slytherin's voice was hypnotic; as the echo of the last words faded, the students still leaned forward, entranced. Draco was the first to shake himself and look around at the others suspiciously. Someone here would betray Slytherin—he would take pleasure in unmasking the traitor, in dragging the guilty party before the Dark Lord and being honoured for his own loyalty. Most of the other Slytherins looked to be having the same thoughts. None of them were Malfoys, though. He would be the Dark Lord's most devoted servant and outshine them all.

That was when the Dark Lord entered the room, silent yet unmistakable, his robes billowing around his thin form, his head gleaming in the dull half-light of the room. He was supernaturally graceful and not entirely human—he was more than human. The Slytherins bowed down as one before the greatest wizard in the world. From the corner of his eyes, Draco saw the Dark Lord nod respectfully to his ancestor's portrait. The portrait nodded back, and then the two Death Eaters carefully wrapped up the priceless painting and carried it away.

An enormous snake followed the Dark Lord into the room and the Dark Lord said something to it in Parseltongue. The snake reared up, its forked tongue tasting the air, and it hissed back. The hisses sent a pleasant shiver down Draco's spine. Why could stupid Potter speak Parseltongue when he, Draco, deserved it so much more? But no, he would not waste thoughts on Potter tonight.

"For much of the year," began the Dark Lord. "You live in the lair of the enemy. Of the Old Fool." He spoke barely above a whisper, and the Slytherins hung on to each word. They hissed again at the mention of Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord looked briefly amused. "Yesss… each year he tries to turn you, to twist your loyalties to him and the other filthy mudblood lovers. But you have stayed true." Pride welled up in Draco's chest.

"And now I shall reward you. I will allow you to see a portion of my power, of the power of Slytherin that you may taste once all the muggles and mudbloods and blood traitors have fallen in the rubbish heaps where they belong. Bring the Auror!" A man wearing Auror robes was dragged into the room. Aside from a split lip, he didn't appear injured. His eyes narrowed when he saw the Dark Lord, and the Dark Lord smiled. It was a terrible smile.

The Dark Lord flicked his wand and a shield went up between them and the children. Then, to Draco's astonishment, the Dark Lord casually tossed a dark wand to the floor. The Auror grabbed it and pointed it at the Dark Lord. "You bastard," the man said through gritted teeth. "Rot in hell."

"After you," the Dark Lord said silkily. If there had been no barrier, Draco would have killed the man himself, for his disrespect. But the children could only watch.

The Auror screamed, "Avada Kedavra!" and a brilliant green light shot out of his wand. The Dark Lord made no effort to cast against it or duck away, and as the curse connected green light flashed over the walls of the room Draco felt the shield shriek and crumble. A moment later the world went dark.

Draco was the first of the children to wake. The Dark Lord was sitting now, watching them. The Auror lay in a heap near one corner of the room, his eyes closed. Aching a little from landing on the stone floor, Draco crawled to the Dark Lord and kissed his robes. "Master…."

"Young Malfoy."

"Yes, Master?"

"Look at me." Draco looked up into the Dark Lord's red eyes and felt the presence of the Dark Lord burning through his mind. "You have potential," the Dark Lord said at last. "I may have a task for you…."

"Anything, Master," Draco swore. "Anything."

"Kill the werewolf and return to me."

"What?"

"Kill it." The world shifted around him and Draco was back in the forest, looking at a werewolf in a cage.

"But the full moon is over," Draco said in confusion, not knowing how he knew. The werewolf in the cage turned into Lupin.

"I don't expect anything from you," Lupin said.

"Kill it!"

Then Dora was next to him. "I trusted you! He trusted you!"

"I don't think you should have," Draco said shakily, but he didn't raise his wand.

"How useless you are," the Dark Lord sneered. "_Avada_—"

Draco woke up.

* * *

I assume that if you're here, you're a HP diehard, and have now seen movie 5. I think it's being released here in the next few days, but I don't think I'll get to see it until close to the end of August (stupid summer camp)! I have no idea how or when I'll get a hold of book 7 either. (sighs) 


	11. Matters of Family

Neither Narcissa Malfoy nor the universe she inhabits belong to me.

11 – Matters of Family

_Carol_

_(To be sung to the tune of _Pat-a-pan)

_Mother take your child now  
__Kiss upon his sickly brow  
__When the beast rises tonight  
__Yil re il re il  
__Nan a nan a no  
__When the beast rises tonight  
__How can you still love him?_

_When your blood deserted you  
__Mother only you were true  
__Have you any family left?  
__Yil re il re il  
__Nan a nan a no  
__Have you any family left  
__to aid you on bloody morn?_

_Child kiss your mother's cheek  
__Know that she is far from weak  
__Know what she gave up for you  
__Yil re il re il  
__Nan a nan a no  
__Know what she gave up for you  
__silver moon so long ago._

-page 17, _Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature_

Draco shivered at the memory. He remembered clearly how awed he felt to witness the impossible—the Killing Curse being blocked. He remembered how honoured he felt to be in the presence of the Dark Lord. But he didn't feel so honoured anymore. Now, when he thought about the Dark Lord, he was afraid for himself, or sickened by the description of yet another arcane, brutal ritual. His plan called for studying and practicing the Dark Arts, but really he'd rather locate some books on healing and start studying the Wolfsbane Potion. For the first time, Draco questioned whether he truly did want to rejoin the Death Eaters. But what other palatable option was there?

A soft chime from the monitoring spell informed him that Lupin was awake. Sure enough, when he reached the bedroom door Lupin was sitting up against the pillows and carefully sipping a bowl of bland soup. He gave Draco a tired smile. "Good morning, Draco."

"Good afternoon," Draco retorted. Lupin looked a little nonplussed. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I look, I'm sure. Thank you, by the way." He nodded to the bandages.

"I didn't do much," Draco admitted. "I just got you upstairs. Your _girlfriend_ came and did the most." He was a bit amused to see Lupin flush at the word "girlfriend."

"I see your Glamour held up against her. I'll need a day or so before I can replace the one for the scar, if that's all right."

"It doesn't matter; it's not like the scar is real anyway. I think she's still suspicious of me though."

Lupin nodded. "Well, she thinks I'm too trusting."

"She's right." There was a small, awkward silence and Draco wondered if he'd been telling Lupin, "Don't trust me."

Looking thoughtful, Lupin said, "We may have a problem if she tries to look up something about you at work. Jacob Elliott never existed, after all, and Aurors don't like mysteries."

"What can we do? Can you persuade her to drop the subject?"

"Perhaps, but it's unlikely. It may be better to simply tell her the truth."

"That I'm Draco Malfoy? You must be joking!"

"You shall have to reclaim your true identity at some point, Draco. You will not be able to stay Jacob Elliott forever, and you know it." Lupin's expression was not unkind. "Think about it, at least. I will not tell her without your permission."

Draco nodded, still unconvinced. He was unwilling to give up the security of Jacob Elliott, even though it cost him his good looks. He knew he'd maintain the disguise for as long as he possibly could.

Lupin's expression turned playful. "You may not have known this, but you and Dora are cousins."

"What?"

"It's true. Her mother Andromeda is one of the Blacks, Narcissa's sister in fact."

"I always knew a second sibling was removed from the tapestry," Draco admitted. "But Mother never spoke about her family. She considers herself completely Malfoy. I always wondered, though. Andromeda, you said?"

"She married a Muggleborn instead of the pureblood her family betrothed her to. After they eloped she was disinherited."

"Dora is a half-blood?" Draco exclaimed. "Ugh, I wish I hadn't asked. I'm related to a half-blood? Merlin."

Lupin had clearly been enjoying Draco's surprise, but at those last words he turned serious. "Draco, I have some idea of the way you were brought up to think about half-bloods and Muggleborns. But I also have come to know you as an intelligent, logical young man. Isn't it time you stopped regurgitating the attitudes and prejudices of your father, and started thinking for yourself?"

"I do think for myself," Draco argued, stung. "It's a proven fact that intermarrying with muggles dilutes the power and magic in our blood. I've read studies."

"I'm sure you have," Lupin said. "I've read some of those studies myself. They pick and choose information that supports their arguments, and conveniently leave out any evidence that contradicts them. A better text would be Murdock's _Power Level Analysis_. It's rather dated, as he died in 1904, but he examined the power level results for thirty years of Hogwarts graduates, and recorded the eventual careers of as many as possible."

"The spell to gauge overall magical power was flawed. That's why Hogwarts stopped giving it."

"Actually, it was discontinued because the Purebloods on the Wizengamot were displeased with Murdock's findings. They also gathered up all the copies of his book they could find and burned them, forbidding any reprintings. Murdock emigrated, and his later books were banned in Britain."

"Yet you happen to have a copy?" Draco said doubtfully.

"In my office, yes. I acquired it almost by accident; sheer luck really. Anyway, Murdock found that if anything, Pureblood children were slightly more inclined to have low power levels, due to the same small number of families intermarrying again and again."

"He thought Purebloods were inbreeding?"

"You are a very strong wizard, Draco. Can you say the same for all your housemates?"

Draco thought of Crabbe, and Goyle, and that lump Bulstrode. He thought of Pansy's mania, barely kept hidden from the general student population, and Nott's weak chin and general sickliness. Hardly the pinnacle of Wizardkind.

Lupin went on relentlessly, "You can see the same trend outside your house. Was Pureblood Ron Weasley, may he rest in peace, more powerful than his friends? Can you deny Hermione Granger's intelligence and aptitude for learning magic?"

"Just because she was a teacher's pet doesn't make her powerful," Draco scoffed.

"Be honest, Draco," Lupin chided. Changing tactics, he said, "Albus was a pureblood, true, but his wife was a lovely Muggle woman, a musician, and his son showed an extraordinary skill at magic even as a toddler."

"I didn't know Dumbledore had a family." Impossible to imagine the Headmas—the former Headmaster as a father.

Lupin was very serious now. "Grindlewald killed them both. He rarely spoke of them, but he told me about them after Voldemort fell. I think he wanted to show me that it was possible to go on, even when crushed by grief. We traded stories about our dead families for several hours, until I felt as though I too had known Noelle and Vanderbilt."

Draco didn't know what to say to that, so he stayed silent. "Harry Potter is a half-blood, as you know, but perhaps you didn't know that your Dark Lord Voldemort is one as well."

"You're lying!" Draco accused.

"Not at all. I'll try to bring you the family tree the Order deciphered for Voldemort." Draco stood and started to stalk out of the room, but Lupin's quiet voice stopped him. "I'm not finished. Severus is a half-blood, and so am I."

Draco stood frozen for an eternal moment, the names echoing over and over again in his mind's eye. "You're a filthy liar!" he shouted, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. He paced back and forth across the big room, unable to contain his agitation. It couldn't be true—it just couldn't! He'd studied paper after paper, been grilled on them by his childhood tutors. Muggle blood made wizards lesser, weaker.

Potter he knew about. Alright, the prat had a fair amount of raw magical power, maybe from the Potter blood. Even though the Potters were blood traitors, they were an ancient House. And Potter was only an average student anyway. His father's blood couldn't completely save him from the taint carried by his mudblood mother's. _Lily_, his mind supplied suddenly. _The charms expert who gave her life to save her son. _Draco pushed the confusing thought away.

Lupin, that was a trickier matter. He'd slowly grown to accept that the werewolf was clever and a fair hand at magic. Why had Lupin not admitted to his half-blood status before? Draco felt not a little betrayed. Granger, well, being able to regurgitate facts from a book didn't make her inherently any more powerful. Actually, it made her a bit of a freak.

Lupin was lying about the Dark Lord and Master Snape. He had to be. It was impossible. The entire philosophy of the Death Eaters was based on blood supremacy. If the Dark Lord was a half-blood, then the entire movement was founded on a lie, and Draco couldn't accept that.

This had to be Lupin's aim; he had wondered why Lupin had not tried before to sway Draco to the side of Light, and his words today were surely his attempt! He'd lulled Draco into a false sense of security by not bringing up their irreconcilable views, and then ambushed Draco with his agenda right as Draco was starting to question his faith in the Dark Lord. The nerve of Lupin, to do this right after Draco helped save his life—it was infuriating!

Still, that night as Draco deliberately slowed his breathing and eased into sleep, he couldn't escape the recurring thought that sent a shiver of horror up his spine: what if Lupin was telling the truth? What then?

Lupin still made no effort to get up the next day, and Draco marched into his room at noon with a lunch tray and questions. "Why didn't you tell me before that you're a half-blood?"

Lupin looked startled. "I suppose I don't think about it very much. The prejudices I may face as a half-blood pale in comparison to those I face as a werewolf, and generally, the small number of people who can look past my lycanthropy have no problems with my blood status."

"Oh," Draco deflated. "I guess that makes sense."

"As for the others, I had always intended to wait to speak with you about them until you came to me with questions. I was sure you would eventually, but when you reacted to learning about Dora I could not wait any longer."

"I don't know what to think. I know you are honest, but I know the—the things you said can't possibly be true. They go against everything I've ever learned."

"The philosopher Thoreau once said, "It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know.""

Draco made a face. "That makes no sense."

"In a way, I suppose not," Lupin admitted. "Think of it like this. Think of all the things you learned about werewolves in your life, from family and friends and books and teachers." He waited a beat. "Now think of what you really _knew_ about werewolves before you came to live here." Another beat. "Think of the difference between the two. Think of what you _know_ about werewolves now, things that no book could tell you."

Draco shook his head. He wasn't sure what he'd expected—to easily catch Lupin out in a lie, perhaps?

"Leave aside your assumptions and what you have been told to think," Lupin said. "Trust in your own logical skills, and your answers may yet surprise you."

"I doubt that very much," said Draco. "You may be forgetting that I'm not a Light Wizard."

Lupin made no answer, but his tired eyes gleamed in a very knowing way, and Draco sensed that he'd lost the argument.

Lupin left his sickbed before he looked remotely close to well, and presumably resumed his work for the Order. Certainly he resumed disappearing at all hours of the day. Mrs. Longbottom owled the ingredients for Wolfsbane to Lupin's cottage, as well as crystal and gold cauldrons and an ivory mortar and pestle, all of which were required. Draco, who had reclaimed the bedroom once Lupin was on his feet, studied the directions and began brewing the potion there. And for the briefest of times as October died, the attacks stopped.

No one relaxed or celebrated victory; there was an air of terrified anticipation overlaying everything. "It will happen on Halloween," Draco guessed. "Whatever they are planning."

"Dia de le Muertos," Lupin agreed. _Day of the Dead_.

And sure enough, the _Prophet_ on the first of November carried news of multiple attacks—massacres really. After leaving off for a few weeks, the Death Eaters were thirstier for blood than ever. On November fourth, when the headline was a butchered village of muggles in Wales, Hermione Granger's name joined the lists of the dead.

Draco examined the list printed each day, but it still took him a moment to process the innocuous words. There was a tangle of emotions inside him and his chest felt tight. The Golden Gryffindor trio was all ashes now; only Potter was left. When Lupin Apparated home Draco said without preamble, "How did Granger die?"

"Draco…."

Draco didn't think he'd ever seen Lupin at a loss for words before. "What?"

"Sit down." Lupin sat on the sofa and Draco slowly followed, sitting on the armchair facing him.

"What's going on?"

"Draco, there was another Auror sweep of Malfoy Manor, based on a tip that Bellatrix Lestrange was hiding there. They found some—some things, enough to order your mother in for questioning."

"Mother's in jail?" Painful to think of his elegant mother in a jail cell.

Lupin closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the compassion in them was terrible. "No. She crushed her crystal locket in her hand. It was full of a fast-acting poison."

Draco couldn't think, couldn't breath. He couldn't even cry, as he'd completely frozen inside. All he could think was _no no no no no no no_. A gentle pressure; he looked down and saw Lupin's pale hand gently gripping his own disguised one. "No," he said, his voice feeling rusty and not his own. "You're lying."

"I never lie to you, Draco."

"That's—to do that is _common_. My mother _wouldn't_. She's a _lady_. She wouldn't—she didn't!"

"I'm sorry, Draco."

Draco roughly pulled his hand out of Lupin's. "You're not! Don't pretend you cared about her!"

"I didn't know her or particularly care for her as a person," Lupin admitted. "But I care about you. I truly am sorry."

Draco was silent. Dazed, he waited for Lupin to tell him that it was all a cruel joke—no, Lupin wasn't cruel—to say something, but Lupin was quiet. Lightly, tentatively, Lupin rested a hand on Draco's shoulder, and Draco almost leaned towards the other man until he came back to himself. He sprang to his feet and ran to his room. Throwing himself on the bed, he stared up at the ceiling. His eyes were dry.

Mother was dead but she couldn't be dead oh Merlin, Mother was dead. How could she do this, leave this life without knowing where her only son was? He still needed her! He needed to know that her measured steps still paced the balcony, that her robes still glided across the marble floors. She needed to be there for when Draco made it home!

He remembered when he was given his mission by the Dark Lord, how Greyback had sidled up next to him, breath rancid as he bent to whisper in Draco's ear. _"I'm hoping you fail. I'd just love to—meet—your pretty mother."_ When Draco moved away, Greyback followed, laughing a rusting, creaky laugh. _"Is her skin as soft as it looks?"_ The very idea of a werewolf touching his mother—the very thought had made him sick. Every missive from home last year was a reassurance, each failed attempt at his mission the cause of nightmares.

And now the bottom had fallen out of the world because _Mother was dead_, and Malfoys didn't let emotions show but Draco was drowning in them, gasping for air. Then Lupin was there, conjuring a paper bag for Draco to breathe into, rubbing Draco's back. A part of Draco's mind thought that now would be a good time to cry, but he squashed the thought. No. Malfoys didn't cry.

When he could breathe normally again he said, "I'm fine."

Lupin shook his head. "You don't need to lie. What can I do, Draco?"

"You can bring her back," Draco said, knowing he was being stupid as he said it. Lupin said nothing, and Draco sighed, "I know. No one can."

"Tell me something about her. A good memory."

Draco threw him a look that said quite clearly, "Are you mad?"

"Trust me."

"She—she would slip me light-hearted fiction books at Christmas. My father didn't approve of them."

"My parents always gave me fiction," Lupin said fondly. "They were afraid I was too serious. I gave them away to kids at school." Draco looked at him and Lupin said in a low voice, "Another."

"There was one pastry, one glazed in chocolate, which she didn't let the house elves make. She said only women in the Black family could make it properly."

"Whereas my mum was hopeless at cooking. We always teased her…." Lupin sent Draco and expectant look.

Draco bit his lip and said, "When I was ready for bed, I went to Mother and she kissed my forehead and cheek. Father thought it was silly but she insisted."

"On full moon nights my mum always had to be dragged away from the door of the shed, no matter how much time had gone by. She hated how little she could do to help me."

"She called me her delight, her Dragon." And Lupin responded with something else. It could have felt like a competition but it didn't, just a gentle back and forth of good memories. The horror of what had happened—the image of his mother crumpled on the floor—did not, could not, diminish for long, but the image of his mother's soft, proud smile when he did his first accidental magic joined the awful one.

He supposed he should release Lupin to go be with Potter; he had not wholly forgotten Granger's name among the dead. But Potter surely had a whole army of comforters, and Draco sensed Lupin would stay here until Draco sent him away, and maybe even then if he thought he was still needed. So he said nothing. Lupin, for his part, looked at the sealed jars of ingredients in the corner and the quietly bubbling silver cauldron, but did not ask about them.

"You are not the first to lose a parent," Lupin said softly at one point. It could have been scolding, but it seemed more to remind Draco that he was not alone in his grief. Somehow, he knew not how, he eventually slept.

* * *

I'd be lying if I said I was completely happy with this chapter. I'm incredibly fortunate in that both my parents are happy and healthy (and readers of this story, actually). It's difficult to express such a grief in words, I think, and yet in fiction, all we have are words, and perhaps even more powerfully, the empty spaces between them. If you've lost a member of your immediate family, my heart goes out to you. 


	12. Wolfsbane

Neither Nymphadora Tonks nor the universe she inhabits belong to me.

12 - Wolfsbane

"_I say we make a habit of supplying all Britain's werewolves with free Wolfsbane. Then, after X number of months, add a couple extra tablespoons of aconite. That'll solve the problem right there, and get us out of this crummy unit to boot."_

_-QuickQuotes notation at monthly staff meeting for Werewolf Capture Unit_

Lupin woke him the next morning. At his sleepy glare, Lupin said, "When my mother died, I didn't want to get up. I lay in bed all day, miserable and full of regrets. James and Sirius helped me to pull out of it, in time."

Understanding but not particularly liking it, Draco sat up rubbing his eyes. "And when James and—and Lily died?"

At first he thought Lupin wouldn't answer, but then: "Well, that time I tried drowning myself in a bottle, which isn't the best approach either, really."

Lupin had mentioned his mother… "So your father, he's still alive?"

"No." When Draco fumbled over an apology, Lupin said patiently, "Come to breakfast."

They ate quietly, and Lupin announced he had to go. "Order business," he said, surprising Draco by saying aloud what had always been silently understood. Draco only nodded, and after setting his dishes in the sink Lupin Disapparated. Draco wandered into the sitting room area and stopped short.

There were three novels on the coffee table, each by a different modern wizarding author. Lupin must have gotten them after Draco was asleep the night before. Tears prickled at his eyes and now at last, with no one to see him, Draco allowed them to fall. _Mother_. He didn't even have a picture of her here—he could so easily die in this war having never seen her face again. The thought was unbearable, and more tears welled up.

Remnants of his dreams returned; he'd seen his mother, though she looked less like an angel and more like a Grecian statue of a goddess, her perfectly falling robes and chiseled features fixed and rigid in stone. Strangely, he'd seen a statue of Granger as well, in much the same style, and the Weasley girl. Granger had looked rather prettier than he remembered her being in life, and he imagined her statue put on a pedestal among the old Greek and Roman philosophers, the magical and the muggle ones.

Weasley—it felt wrong to see her like that. His mother—well, Draco had seen a bust of her head and shoulders before. He could imagine a statue in her honour. And Granger was pretentious enough join the company of dead philosophers and ancient kings. But Weasley—in Draco's memory she was always in motion: jumping at him for insulting Potter, teasing a boy, her eyes fairly dancing, streaking across the sky in a Quidditch match.

Draco was not overly given to dream interpretation, but he guessed that it had something to do with the fact that all three were now frozen in time, at the age of their death. They would never grow old and wrinkled and have children—grandchildren in his mother's case—running around their robes.

Draco brushed ineffectually at his wet cheeks. At least he hadn't dreamed of the male Weasley. Ugh.

The _Prophet_ came and Draco supposed he should have expected it, expected the headlines about his mother's death. There was a picture of his mother, one of the stock photos the newspaper always showed when she'd been to a society or charity event. He knew that reserved, gracious smile well. The article was infuriating. The _Prophet_, always so kind to her in the past, was like a shark smelling fresh blood in the water. _Finally_, each line seemed to shout, _the death of someone who _deserves_ it_! Draco finally turned to the second article, still fuming. Another couple killed; a mudblood and a half-blood. Nothing new there. What arrested Draco was a quote from the man's mother, who sobbed, "No parent should have to outlive their child! I scarcely survived my sister's death in the first war—I cannot bear it!"

Padma couldn't bear it either, Draco thought. A sister, a mother, a child, a friend. Draco turned to the list of the dead, catching his breath at his mother's name midway down. Although none of the other names were familiar to him, he realized in that moment that they all likely had surviving relatives too, parents or siblings or cousins, and that for every name on the list there was surely someone who at this moment felt just as he did.

For the first time, Draco found himself glad that he had not managed to kill the mudblood, his second test for the Dark Lord. Though her family would never know any better, Draco at least knew that he wasn't the cause of their grief. _Does this mean I believe the Light side?_ he thought uneasily.

Draco summoned a parchment, a quill and some ink and attempted to organize his jumbled thoughts.

I'm glad I didn't kill the mudblood

No one—or very few people—should have to feel how I feel right now

We shouldn't kill the mudbloods or blood traitors.

Number three was the logical extension of one and two. Draco stared at the wet, shining ink. His hand trembled as he wrote a fourth sentence, and a fifth.

This doesn't mean mudbloods should be allowed in our society

But if I've always been wrong about 3, what else might I be wrong about?

Draco shook himself. His mother barely dead a day, and look at the traitorous thoughts he was having! He crumpled the parchment and threw it away, ignoring the ink that stained his hand. He had to check on the Wolfsbane Potion; it was nearly time for the next step.

Lupin insisted that Draco share more happy memories of his mother each night before bed, and that Draco get out of bed and dressed each morning. He was gone most of the day, so Draco probably could have returned to bed. But as he was already up and dressed, what would be the point really?

Unable to bring himself to continue the essays about the Dark Lord and not in the mood to study the healing book, Draco read the first novel, "My Love Was an Atlantean," by Vataire Sun Lu. It was an adventure story with a sideline of romance and a cheesy, upbeat ending. In other words, just what Draco needed.

After a few days of this, Lupin came in one night and silently gave Draco a small crystal vial. It contained a thick, silvery liquid that moved sluggishly when Draco held it up to the light at an angle. "What is this?"

"There were Aurors and Order members at your mother's memorial and burial, in case anyone of interest showed up. I volunteered to be one of them."

"And these are your memories," Draco said in realization.

"Yes. You will need a Pensieve to view them, of course. And as I don't have one, keep them for as long as you need."

Draco didn't thank people often, but… "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Lupin watched as Draco carefully put the vial in a robe pocket, then said, "I also will be here less from now on, except for the full moon, of course."

"What? Why? You're barely here now."

Draco had the sense that Lupin was choosing his words very carefully. "Ron and Hermione were working on something with Harry, something very secret."

"Something very dangerous," Draco muttered, but fell silent at Lupin's look.

"Harry needs—well, an assistant, I suppose. Someone to help him and watch his back."

"Because Weasley and Granger did such a good job…. Sorry. Do go on."

"I didn't know what they were doing before. No one did. Harry didn't want to tell me, I'm sure, but this… this is more than anyone could do on his own."

"You want to bring Potter here," Draco said flatly.

"No. He's tracked wherever he goes. He's constantly on the move. I'll be with him now." Lupin's words were direct. "But you're right. It is very dangerous, even more so than my other work for the Order, I think."

Draco didn't know what to say. "Don't die."

Lupin smiled faintly. "Well, if you insist."

After that Lupin didn't come home every night. When he did he looked drawn and exhausted and rubbed at his eyes. Fortunately, he happened to be home the seventh of November, exactly a week before the full moon. Draco ladled some of the steaming potion into a cup and carried it out to the main room. Lupin's eyes widened when he saw the cup.

Draco said, "Your first dose of Wolfsbane. You'll need to come home once a day to drink it."

Lupin took the cup and then gave Draco a searching look. He must have found some answer on Draco's face, because he gravely took the cup with both hands and drank, making a face at the taste. "Disgusting as ever." He smiled at Draco. "I knew you were brewing something, but I must admit I didn't expect this. Thank you, Draco."

"It was nothing," Draco said, but they both knew it was something.

Dora visited two nights later. Lupin wasn't home yet when she arrived and her unfriendly expression made Draco nervous. "Where's Remus?"

"Out, doing something for the Order."

She turned on him, drawing her wand. "What do you know about the Order?"

Draco shrugged. "Pretty much just that he's in it. I guessed that you are too but he doesn't talk about things like that."

Her wand didn't waver. "What kinds of things does he talk about?"

What did they talk about? "My—my family." Well, his mother. But "Jacob's" father was supposedly dead as well. He did not have to feign sadness when he said that. "Defense against the Dark Arts. I, er, I was brought up to think Purebloods are best, and I think he's trying to change my mind." The last was a calculated risk.

He assumed she was attempting to monitor his truthfulness in some way. She didn't look wholly satisfied by his answers. "And can you tell me why the Ministry seems to have no record of you or your family ever having existed?"

Draco was just arranging his expression into one of polite confusion when Lupin arrived. Thankful for the reprieve, Draco went to fetch the next dose of Wolfsbane. He heard Dora addressing the same question to Lupin.

""Jacob" is an alias, of course," Lupin said calmly. "Ah, thank you Jacob." He took the cup and drank, seemingly not noticing how Draco and Dora both gaped at him.

"You gave me an alias?" Dora finally asked, looking upset.

"His true name is not for me to tell, not since I offered him sanctuary."

"You're sure you can trust him?"

Lupin gave her a reassuring smile. "If I was not, I would not drink the Wolfsbane he brewed me."

She seemed startled at that, and swung around to study Draco, who was cleaning out the cup the muggle way. Potions often did not react well to cleaning spells. "I—thank you," she said uncertainly. Draco glanced at her and saw conflicting emotions on her expressive face. Behind her, Lupin lightly rubbed his throat, looking pained, but his expression was neutral again when Dora turned back to him. Some of the ingredients in Wolfsbane, like aconite, were poisonous in doses just minutely higher than the potion required, so Draco supposed it made sense for the potion to burn going down as it built up in Lupin's body.

"Trust me, Dora," Lupin was saying. He locked eyes with the Auror.

"You know I do," she replied. The intensity of their gaze made Draco uncomfortable, though he was glad that Dora would apparently stop investigating him. He quietly slipped back into his room, neither adult seeming to notice.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Draco pulled out the photo he'd clipped out of the newspaper and, as he did every night, gazed down at his mother's beautiful face. Although it was a wizarding picture, she moved very little, just smiled her enigmatic smile. How could she have killed herself? Was it an order from the Dark Lord? To what end? She was not a marked Death Eater, and surely she had little sensitive information. How could she abandon Draco by dying—and doing so by her own choice? Didn't she understand the need, deep in his bones, for her to be safe?

Sighing, he tried to push away the treacherous thought that returned again and again. _Potter's mother died for him. Took a Killing Curse, the legend says. Did you even think of me when you crushed your poisonous necklace?_ Each time the awful thought occurred, Draco felt terrible. How could he even begin to compare his mother and Lily Potter? His mother, a Pureblood lady managed the house elves and a charity organization, with Potter, the mudblood Gryffindor who studied Charms? Shaking his head, Draco called, "_Nox_," and slipped under the covers. As he closed his eyes, one final thought stole across him: _They were both mothers_.

He suspected that Lupin and Dora left for the night, possibly to Dora's house. Lupin didn't return until late evening the following day, bringing with him packages of muggle Thai food. Though Draco had already eaten, he ate a few bites, the unfamiliar foods' textures and tastes strange on his tongue. He suspected Lupin had only stopped at the house for his Wolfsbane dose. After swallowing the potion with a grimace, Lupin leaned heavily on the countertop before turning to wash the cup. Was it Draco's imagination or was Lupin moving more slowly than normal? Before he could ask Lupin said, "I'll be in my office."

Yes. The office. Nearly every moment Lupin was home he was barricaded inside that mysterious room. It put Draco in a difficult position—all those months he could have talked to Lupin any time, yet now, when he had so many questions, Lupin was always gone. Yet, even as he wanted to question Lupin and pick apart his arguments, Draco was afraid he might not be able to. Even as Draco grieved for his mother—the knowledge of what had happened tore at him anew each time the clock chimed the hour, each time he closed his eyes—Draco no longer had simple faith in the proper order of things. If only time could slow down just a little, perhaps he'd be able to process everything.

The second-to-last day before the full moon Lupin didn't leave the house—or his office. Draco knocked on the door at lunchtime and Lupin opened the door. "I think I'll give lunch a miss today," he said quietly.

Draco frowned. "You need to keep your strength up."

Lupin closed his eyes for a moment before admitting, "Anything I eat now won't be in my stomach for long."

"Rest, then."

"Sitting in a chair is hardly strenuous." Behind Lupin Draco could see a bit of the office; the desk, covered in pieces of parchment, a cushioned chair and floating candles, already lit. They both knew perfectly well that poring over books did not equal resting. But Draco was not Lupin's keeper. He nodded, and Lupin shut the door.

When Lupin emerged that night he blanched at the plate of food at his place and shook his head before Draco could say a word. Taking the glass, he stared at the brownish sludge within, then straightened his shoulders and drank. He offered it back to Draco with a shaky half-smile and turned back towards his office. He made it two steps before collapsing.

Swearing, Draco dropped the cup and knelt by Lupin's side. The older man's arms seemed rigid and locked in place, and Draco could see muscles spasming under the skin. "Merlin," Draco breathed. He must have made an error in the potion—there was no other explanation. Why had he even attempted Wolfsbane? It was far, far beyond any school potion. And now he'd inadvertently poisoned the very person he was trying to help.

He did not know how to summon Dora—why had he never asked how?—and in any case she would surely not believe it an accident. Why had he not studied the books on healing more? Pointing his wand at Lupin, Draco said, "_Venter cassus!_" Immediately Lupin gagged and started vomiting. Draco conjured a basin and held it for the other man, casting the charm again and hastily canceling it when only bile came up.

What else? Draco levitated Lupin into the washroom and drew a steaming hot bath before lowering Lupin in. He didn't know how much the vomiting spell had accomplished; after all, Lupin had been drinking the flawed potion for nearly a week. All he'd consumed the previous five days had already been absorbed by his body. Draco winced as he recalled the warning signs—Lupin leaning on furniture for support, his sickliness all day. Still, it was tonight's dose that was the tipping point. Surely if tonight's damage was reversed, Lupin had a chance.

The hot water and steam eventually began to take effect and some of the tension left Lupin, the tremors slowing and finally stopping. Belatedly Draco realized he really ought to have removed Lupin's robes first; he hadn't been thinking. Now the water-clogged material was heavy and awkward to remove. He left the shirt and trousers beneath the robes alone. He had no desire to see the scars from previous full moons.

The moon. Of course—it was tomorrow. That was what had precipitated this whole disaster. Lupin was breathing easier now and Draco felt reasonably sure he would last the night. Whether he had the strength to survive tomorrow's transformation was another matter entirely.

When the water had cooled, Lupin's breathing was not so laboured, but he had yet to open his eyes or speak. Draco considered reheating the water, but decided in the end to vanish it, cast a drying charm on Lupin and levitate him to bed. Lupin's colour was off, but how much was the result of his lycanthropy and how much caused by the bad Wolfsbane? There was no way to know.

The diagnostic spells Draco managed to cast indicated that Lupin was now in a natural sleep. Draco felt torn; on the one hand, Lupin greatly needed the rest, but on the other, he desperately wanted to wake the older man. When Lupin woke, Draco could give him a nourishing potion, and possibly a strengthening one as well. He could assess the damage to Lupin's health better, maybe even figure out where the problem in the potion occurred.

Realizing he needed to make the potions he intended to give Lupin, Draco moved to the cauldron in the corner of the room. As he worked, he sent frequent glances to the still figure in the bed. The adrenaline rush started to wear away and Draco caught himself nearly nodding off. Fortunately, he came to himself in time to save the bubbling potion. An easy potion, yet Draco had nearly melted the silver cauldron. He scowled, disgusted with himself; some Potions Master he'd make!

Lupin stirred a few hours before dawn, blinking awake and rubbing his joints as though they pained him; the wrists, elbows, shoulders and where his neck met his body." Draco didn't know what to say as Lupin turned towards him, finally settling on a feeble, "It was an accident. You probably don't believe me, but it was."

Lupin sighed. "It is a very difficult potion." That suggested he believed Draco, which seemed too much to hope for.

"No work today, of any kind," Draco ordered. "I made some potions for you."

Lupin took the first vial, but hesitated and gave Draco another searching look.

"For Merlin's sake," Draco said irritably. "If I'd botched the potion on purpose to harm you you'd be dead now."

Lupin said evenly, "I hope wanting to know what I'm drinking is not too much to ask," and Draco blushed.

"Oh, right. That one is a nourishing potion. It's easy on the stomach, so I think you won't have problems with it. The one I have is a strengthening potion." Lupin drank the potions and leaned back against the pillows, looking weary. Draco left the room at last and went to the washroom. On the way back towards the bedroom he spotted pieces of glass on the floor—the remains of the cup holding the last dose. He vanished the mess with a flick of his wand, wishing the rest of the mess was so easy to fix.

As dusk approached, Lupin said softly, "It's time," and struggled to his feet.

"Here, let me help you," Draco offered, but Lupin brushed his arm aside and walked under his own power to the trapdoor. His back was straight as he descended the ladder and closed the door.

There was no fury or blood-soaked rage in the werewolf's howls that night; only pain. It was like a rabbit being tortured. As Draco stood frozen above the sealed trapdoor, he could only think that the werewolf was dying. He was hearing Lupin's death cries, and all he could do was pull his robe tighter about himself and wait for morning.

* * *

A Chinese proverb says, "In heaven there is paradise, on earth Suzhou and Hangzhou." My expectations aren't quite that high, but I'm off to Suzhou for the weekend. I'm up at the ungodly hour of 5am to bring you this chapter before I leave, so you better be appreciative! (laughs). Expect chapter 13 upon my return, which I think will be sometime Monday. 


	13. The Unforgivables

While I wouldn't call Suzhou an earthly paradise, it does have some nice gardens, and I can understand why it's sometimes compared to Venice. But enough of that, and on with the story. Neither Alastor Moody nor the universe he inhabits belong to me.

13 – The Unforgivables

_You have to want it. You have to love it. Ah, the screams must sing in your veins. Feel the slick, heady rush of deep power sending its tendrils into your soul. Reach for the darkness, and cry out in the pleasure of it._

_Essay: Inside the Three (widely attributed to Grindelwald)_

When the howls stopped, at first Draco thought it was all over—that Lupin was dead. Then he registered the pale pink light creeping in the windows, and rushed to the trapdoor. He wasn't surprised to find Lupin unconscious, but he did note the relatively small number of injuries. "Of course," he realized. "The wolf was in too much agony to do much." He recalled the sound of the werewolf whimpering in pain, the sound not unlike that of an injured dog.

Draco swiftly wrapped a light robe around Lupin's motionless form, concerned by the cold, clammy feel of the other man's skin. He waited only to get Lupin into the bed before casting a few warming charms and conjuring an additional blanket. Only then did he sit back and shake his head in amazement; he'd been sure the other man wouldn't last the night.

Healers could magic food and healing potions directly into an unconscious patient, but Draco didn't know how to do so. Any further treatment would need to wait until Lupin awoke. Draco cast the monitoring charm he'd once seen Dora place on Lupin and went to fix himself something to eat. Suddenly he felt famished. He remembered how he'd fretted over his plan to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and the rush of relief he'd felt when the last bits of his plan fell into place, when the Dark Mark was finally cast. That didn't even come close to the relief he now felt. Probably because Lupin would keep Dora from killing him, he reasoned.

He was surprised to see a small screech owl outside the window twenty minutes later; the only owl to use the front window was the one to deliver the _Daily Prophet_. All of Lupin's personal correspondence was delivered to the window of his office, so Draco never saw the comings and goings of other owls. The owl hooted impatiently, and Draco opened the window with some trepidation, hoping the note wasn't addressed to Draco Malfoy.

He needn't have worried. The note was addressed to Lupin Cottage. He broke open the seal as the owl settled on the windowsill. The note read: _Jacob- How is he? Tonks_.

The name confused him until he remembered her comment that "only Lupin" was allowed to call her by her first name. Draco hunted around for a scrap of parchment. Not finding one, he wrote his overly optimistic (though he hoped to Merlin Dora never discovered that) response directly under her signature: _Sleeping_. A moment later the owl was on its way. He watched it fly out of sight.

For the first time Draco could remember in recent months, the headline the day after the full moon was not about an attack. Harry Potter had been spotted slinking through Knockturn Alley. Draco wondered what the Boy-Who-Lived was doing there. He was briefly amused at the reporter's wording; "You can only imagine my shock, Dear Reader, at seeing the Chosen One leaving a shop known to sell Dark Artifacts!" It was almost as outraged as something Rita Skeeter would have come up with. Skeeter, of course, had vanished months ago. Draco snorted whenever another writer worried about her in print, for he had no doubt he was safely holed up somewhere in her Animagus form.

The reporter had evidently hurled question after question at Potter, who responded with a curt, "No comment," every time save one. When the reporter questioned why Potter had not avenged his friends, Potter had whirled and pointed his wand at her throat, hissing, "They did _not_ die in vain." A moment later, wrote the reporter, he Apparated away, even though (according to the Records Department at the Ministry) he did not have a license.

The one answer Potter gave was enough to break the _Prophet's_ wall of silence about his friends. The deaths of his girlfriend, Weasley and Granger were dragged up again. "The Order will be furious," Draco thought ironically. The journalists clearly relished writing about Ginny's "tragic fate." They also said Potter had broken up with her in a "noble but ultimately futile" effort to save her. Draco absently wondered if that was true. It sounded like something the _Prophet_ would make up, but it did also sound like something Potter would do. The idiot. She would always have been a target, whether she broke up with Potter or not.

The reporters loved Ron Weasley even more, if such a thing was possible. The whole second page was covered in tributes to the red-haired wizard. "No greater love has a man than to lay down his life for his friends," quoted one tearful witch. Draco rolled his eyes at that, but he was arrested by one of the pictures on the page, one of Potter and Weasley and Granger. It must have been taken during or shortly after First Year.

Draco remembered Potter's defiant, wild expression as he faced off against Professor Umbridge. He recalled the raw power and fury in Potter's green eyes when he sent a brutal slashing curse at Draco the previous year. Surely Potter had never been so small? Picture-Potter turned to whispered something in Granger's ear; she let out a silent shriek of laughter and playfully shoved him away.

It was clear the reporters didn't know the exact circumstances of Granger's death. There was quite a lot of frenzied speculation about how it could have happened. Of course, there was also a lot of speculation about the exact nature of her relationship with the two boys. Then, lacking any other information about her, they rehashed the gossip about her and Potter and Krum from Fourth Year, including a picture from the Yule Ball.

They'd clipped Krum from the picture, and Granger must not have noticed it being taken, because she never looked in the camera's direction. Instead, she gazed around the room with shining eyes and turned to say something to someone off-camera (presumably Krum). Draco scowled at the picture. Someone as annoying as mudblood Granger didn't have the _right_ to look pretty.

He hadn't forgotten about Granger's death, but learning about his mother's had pushed it to the back of his mind. He had to admit, he was curious about how it had happened. She'd undoubtedly been doing something stupidly Gryffindor, likely protecting Potter from the consequences of one of his reckless actions. Lupin knew, he was sure. Lupin probably knew what Potter was doing on Knockturn Alley, as well.

The list of the dead was pushed back to page four by all the Potter mania. The only new name Draco recognized was Anthony Goldstein. Goldstein was a Ravenclaw in Draco's year. Though how a Ravenclaw was foolish enough to attempt fleeing the country at this point was beyond Draco.

It was late afternoon when the monitoring charm sounded. Draco knocked once and didn't wait for a response before easing the door open. Lupin was sitting up and eating the soup the magic in the room provided. He still looked extremely ill, but the very fact that he was conscious and eating did a lot for Draco's peace of mind. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I've been better," said Lupin dryly. "And how are you?"

"Me?" said Draco in surprise. "I'm fine, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look like you're about to fall down. When's the last time you slept?"

Draco shrugged, honestly not sure. He sat down on the chair beside the bed. "I want to try again, after I figure out where I went wrong this time."

"I'll need to think about it," Lupin said, and Draco nodded. They both knew there were and million and one ways Wolfsbane could go wrong, almost all of them deadly. It was sheer luck that Draco's mistake hadn't cost Lupin his life. Lupin fiddled with the edge of his blanket. "Has Dora been here?"

"She sent an owl this morning. I may have implied that everything went well…. I told her you were sleeping. That's the last I heard of her."

"Oh, I see." Lupin looked a little disappointed. Draco wondered if he missed the atrocious blankets she conjured.

"Would you like me to bring you the _Prophet_?" But Lupin was already rubbing his eyes, and it was all Draco could do to get a potion into Lupin before he fell asleep again. The Wolfsbane may have nearly killed Lupin, but the small number of injuries was definitely making the aftermath of the full moon easier. With everything taken care of for the moment at least, Draco conjured a blanket for himself and curled up on the sofa for some much-needed rest.

Lupin was still abed the next day, but the day after he came to the kitchen table for meals and insisted on spending some time in his office. Draco didn't allow him to stay out of bed for any longer than two hours at a time, however. The day after that, Dora came for a visit. She took Lupin for a walk outside and they were gone for a long time. This irritated Draco, who thought it irresponsible of her. It wasn't an exceptionally cold winter, but it was chilly and damp; hardly the best conditions for someone convalescing.

On the 19th of November Lupin said after breakfast, "It's time for me to return to work."

Draco eyed him critically. He did look better, although not well enough, in Draco's estimation. Still, his opinion hadn't been asked. "If I make Wolfsbane again, will you take it?" he asked.

Lupin considered this, although the question was hardly a surprise. "If you feel confident enough to give it to me, then yes. But perhaps this time we should watch the side effects more closely."

"Agreed." And then Lupin was gone. Draco sighed and opened his potions text to examine Wolfsbane yet again. He didn't want to start the next batch until he figured out what he had done to the first one. He was certain he hadn't added the wrong amount of any of the ingredients, but he might have let it boil at one stage a few minutes too long, or stirred the lotus petals counterclockwise one too many times. It bothered him when he couldn't figure out exactly where the problem occurred, but he resolved to take even more care this time, and again used the _Prophet's_ owl to send for more ingredients from Mrs. Longbottom. His note suggested that everything had gone smoothly at November's moon, and Draco felt no guilt over the small lie. After all, in the end Lupin was fine, and he would be careful to not make any mistakes this time.

The last Tuesday of the month, Draco had just finished adding the beetle eyes (it was particularly rare variety of beetle, the moondrop beetle. Little was known about them, as they were found only in remote, marshy areas on the night of the full moon and one night after). The tiny insect eyes floated for a few minutes before dissolving into a pearly streak across the surface of the potion. Now Draco had to wait for the eyes to be totally absorbed and no longer visible. It would take five hours minimum, so he stretched and fetched in the _Prophet_.

Splashed across the top was the headline DEATH EATER BELLATRIX LESTRANGE FOUND DEAD!!! Smaller letters beneath it read, "Azkaban escapee killed by _Avada Kedavra_, sources say." Draco stared at the picture of his aunt. It was one taken at her trial, years ago. Her face had been younger then, of course, less lined, and her body healthier. But the madness was already present in her heavy-lidded eyes. Her mania was enhanced by Azkaban, not caused by it.

Draco's mother had rarely talked about her sister, and after she broke out Draco got the distinct sense that his father didn't care for her either. Draco could understand why. He'd spent a fair bit of time with her the previous summer, when she was teaching him Occlumency. She really was quite terrifying. At the heart of it was how unpredictable he could sense she was. Sometimes she'd abruptly start laughing for no reason, start casting _Crucio_ at the walls and tables. Sometimes one of them nearly hit Draco and he had to dive out of its way.

Her body had been found in an abandoned house outside Manchester, amid evidence of a fight. The _Prophet's_ attitude could be essentially summed up as, "It's about time." They spoke of Bellatrix rather like she had been a rabid animal someone had finally gotten close enough to put down. Draco supposed he should feel angry or upset, but he did not care overly much. He had already wished more than once that it had Bellatrix to die and not his mother. Bellatrix relished the tortures and killings; Draco would not grieve for her.

He did wonder who had killed her, though. Of course it was possible she had failed or displeased the Dark Lord—in fact, that was the most likely scenario. Despite her insanity, she was fanatically loyal to the Dark Lord's cause, and if he condemned her she probably had accepted the punishment as her due. The _Prophet_ suggested a monetary reward and possibly even an Order of Merlin (Third Class) for her killer. No one paid much attention to the earnest young Ministry worker who urged the killer to come forward. "If it was in self-defense as we think it must have been, there will be no punishment," the man said, and Draco marveled at the Ministry's incompetence. Maybe the killer had been fighting for his life, but the Killing Curse could not be cast in self-defense. The Unforgivables didn't work that way.

Draco briefly wondered if Longbottom had anything to do with it, but quickly dismissed the idea. Longbottom was not a strong enough wizard to take on Bellatrix, even if he had improved a bit in the last year. And in any case, Longbottom was safely ensconced at Hogwarts. No, it was likely a fellow Death Eater who cast the curse, whether by the Dark Lord's command or because of some internal power struggle.

Lupin came home that night, ostensibly because he needed a book from his office. But Draco knew it was also to check on him. "I'm sorry about your aunt," he said politely, and though he sounded sincere enough, Draco knew otherwise.

"Don't be," Draco said in answer. Lupin gave him a sharp look at that, but Draco felt no need to explain himself. He did ask, "Do you know anything about it?" though. When Lupin hesitated, Draco exclaimed, "You do know something! What?"

A considering look, then Lupin said quietly, "It was Harry."

"Potter? You're kidding. The Boy-Who-Lived cast the Darkest curse in existence?"

Lupin shrugged. "Harry feels things very strongly, be they love or sorrow or hate. I won't pretend I'm not concerned about it, but the only power I have over his choices is what he chooses to grant me. And as far as he's concerned, I can help him on his mission, or I can leave."

"I've never managed to cast one of the Unforgivables against a person."

"It's not an ability to be envious about. The Unforgivable Curses damage the soul." Draco didn't bother responding. How much easier his life would have been these past months if he'd been able to…. "What have you cast them on?"

"Excuse me?"

"You said you've never successfully cast them against a person. What manner of animal did you use?"

Draco shivered. "Rabbits. I used rabbits to practice."

Lupin studied him. "Do you need to talk about this?"

"No. It's stupid. It was only rabbits."

Lupin conjured them some tea. "I imagine you did the _Imperius_ first." His tone was mild.

"Yeah, that one was easy."

"What did you force the rabbits to do?"

"The same kinds of things Moody did in class. You know, backflips, skipping around, rolling over."

"You didn't force the rabbit to claw its eyes out, jump onto a stove, attack the other rabbits?"

"No!" Draco cried, shocked.

"Really. Who trained you?"

"No one. I was given a room to practice in."

"Interesting." Lupin sipped his tea. "Do go on."

"The _Cruciatus_ was next. That one was the hardest."

"But you did manage it, I assume."

"I had to put up silencing charms because the rabbits screamed. It was awful." Occasionally the dreams of those days still haunted Draco.

"Who did you focus on in order to cast it?"

Draco nearly spit out his tea in surprise. "Potter, of course." Lupin was silent, watching him. "I _hate_ Potter. I pictured his smug, laughing face and said the word."

"And you kept this image at the front of your mind the entire time you cast the curse?"

"Yes…."

Lupin put down his tea cup and steepled his fingers. "But you do know, of course, that if you ever did cast _Cruciatus_ on Harry, he would fall to the ground and convulse just as the rabbit did."

"I know that." And he did, but he hadn't ever really thought about it.

"And the Killing Curse?"

Draco was relieved to leave the _Cruciatus_ behind. He shrugged. "It was hard to cast, but it didn't bother me. It was quick and it was only a rabbit after all."

Lupin sighed. "Have you ever seen a person—what am I talking about, of course you did. You saw Severus cast it upon the Headmaster." _The look on Master Snape's face; the Headmaster slowly falling backwards—_

"Yes. And I saw it again the night I came here, right before I activated the Portkey. There was a mudblood."

"Please do not use that offensive term in front of me."

"Fine, a muggle then. Or a muggleborn, I'm not sure."

"And did you find that different from the killing of the rabbit?" Draco turned his teacup around in his hands. "Draco?"

"Yeah, I guess. When the rabbit was dead it was just a pile of fur, but after the mud—after the muggle died I felt like she was staring at me, accusing me." His tea was cold. "I was supposed to cast the curse at her, but I couldn't do it." Lupin looked startled at that, but before he could say anything, Draco continued, "How could Potter cast it, when I've failed twice now? I bet he hasn't had to practice either."

"Perhaps you don't hate as much as you thought you did. You have dislike for many people, I'm sure; disdain, disgust, even. But you are not inclined towards blind hatred, which I happen to find a very encouraging thought. Certainly this lack is not something to mourn."

"But it shows a lack of power," whispered Draco, a bit shocked that he was confessing his fear. "If my magic was stronger, I could cast it."

"Your level of magic has nothing to do with it," Lupin said firmly.

"You can't know that."

"Actually, I can. James Potter had an amazing natural aptitude for magic. Casting spells took extraordinarily little effort for him. He never successfully cast Avada Kedavra. And believe me, he tried. We'd found a warehouse full of Muggle children who Death Eaters had tortured and killed. But the Killing Curse requires hate, not outrage or thirst for justice.

"Wormtail, on the other hand, struggled in school. He often left classes exhausted from the sheer amount of energy he had to give to power each spell. These days, I'm given to understand that he casts the Killing Curse more frequently than any other spell, with no pause at all."

Draco thought about that. "Have you ever cast it?"

Lupin shook his head. "I've never even attempted it, though once I did come very close. That's not to say I've never killed. I have, more times than I care to think about. But not that curse."

"Is Potter going to try to use it on the Dark Lord?"

"That's what Death Eaters call him. Why don't you try calling him Voldemort sometime?"

"Why don't you answer my question?"

Lupin spread his hands in surrender. "I don't know. I hope he won't have to."

"He can't."

"Perhaps."

"No," Draco said, frustrated. "I mean, no one can cast it on the Dark Lord. He can block it, somehow."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I saw it with my own eyes. It was right after we were warned against betraying him."

Lupin vanished his teacup and stood. "Thank you for telling me that. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go look something up." He escaped to his office, leaving Draco with a cup of cold tea and churning, confused thoughts.


	14. Back Stories

I've been trying to upload for the past two days (I haven't been able to reply to reviews either). So I'm not sure I'll get the whole things online before Saturday. Maybe I'll post a couple chapters at once... but I like the way this one ends, so we'll see. This chapter has a lot of exposition, so sorry. But it's all things that I don't think Draco knows, and that I think he ought to know. And as I'm sure you're aware, neither Albus Dumbledore nor the universe he inhabited belong to me.

14 – Back stories

"_How did you meet the defendant, Professor? What's the backstory?"_

"_The backstory? Three freckles, I believe, and a mole. I regret to say there is also a small tattoo of a Phoenix, a remnant of my misspent youth, though it's really quite a long story—"_

"…_.Uh…. uh…. Sir, I mean, ah, some background information? About how you met the defendant?"_

"_Ah, I see. My apologies, young man. Yes, I will tell you what I can. Perhaps when you sift through the already established facts, you will find the answers you've been looking for."_

_Wizengamot hearing, 1964 corruption case. Speakers: Acting Prosecutor Jeremy Bimble and Albus W.P. Dumbledore, Hogworts professor.  
__NOTE: THIS TRANSCRIPT HAS BEEN ORDERED SEALED BY THE COMMAND OF CORNELIUS FUDGE, B.S.C._

The 26th of November, Daphne Greengrass's body was found in a dumpster in muggle London. She had possibly been killed by exposure to the _Cruciatus_ over a long period of time. Some of her bones were dislocated and she'd bitten clean through her tongue. But the Prophet gave the story scant coverage. There was nothing unusual about the occurrence, after all. And Daphne bore the Dark Mark on her arm.

Draco was surprised, though. Daphne was deliberately neutral at Hogwarts. She'd been one of the others at the meeting with the Dark Lord, but Draco had sensed more fear than awe from her. He supposed she'd been pressured into joining the ranks of the Death Eaters but simply didn't have the skill to be one of them. "You didn't have the skill, either," Draco reminded himself.

Still, he wouldn't have expected Daphne to give in to a little pressure, after her care not to embroil herself in school politics. Perhaps she'd been threatened, and gave in order to save her life—for all the good it did her in the end. As he read a piece by a shop owner (no own dared to go outside; the Wizarding economy teetered on the brink of collapse) he couldn't help but feel unsettled. He'd read an awful lot of obituaries for classmates recently. No matter which way the war ended, Britain's Wizarding population would be devastated.

Lupin came home once every three or four days. He was perpetually distracted and had circles under his eyes. Now he was pushing his blood-equality agenda in earnest.

"_You've seen me bleed; you've washed the blood from my body. Does it look dirty? Does it look any different from yours?"_

"_Three children died today because Voldemort considers their parents "blood traitors." Do you honestly believe those children deserved to die?"_

"_Did you ever wonder if the Muggeborn at that meeting had children? Can you justify making them motherless?"_

All in all Draco was feeling quite rattled and had taken to hiding in his room when Lupin was home. Fortunately, he had an excuse; Lupin brought the Gaunt Family Grimoire. It was a huge, weathered book, the notes in the front pages impossible to read. Not because of the ink, which was still vivid—in fact, the quality of the ink went down in later pages. But the book was so old, the writing wasn't even recognizable as English to Draco's eyes.

A shiver of awe went through Draco at the name in emerald green, slightly bigger than the names around it. _Salazar_. What would his fellow Slytherins do for a treasure such as this? Why didn't the Dark Lord possess it? There was Slytherin's marriage to Merga Cicurina, their three sons.

Draco remained enthralled for several generations before his excitement began to dim just a little. Family trees, important though they were, did not make for the most entertaining of reads. He started to skim the pages, acutely conscious of how many remained before him.

The name changed twice, when the Heir only sired girls (at least, the Heir's only children to produce children of their own). First the name changed to Dignemaje and then a few centuries later to Gaunt. Draco was stunned to see several intermarriages between Malfoys and Dignemajes as late as the sixteenth century. He also saw many places where the paper was charred black. The burnt areas seemed too neat to be from chance or accident. Draco suspected these were former family members, removed from the fold.

He managed to read a note confirming this dating to the twelfth century, by which time he was able to read most of the notes, albeit with some difficulty. The man wrote of his shame at "syx out maine nin tchilds Blode Trayters, n awght but ein son left me." The tree showed only three children for that man, only one of them a boy. Around the three names were clustered little burn marks.

Draco also noticed as he carefully turned the pages the abnormally short lifespans of Slytherin's descendents. One of Salazar's sons was killed by muggles, two of his grandsons by Slytherin's own hand—if only Draco could read the notes accompanying the earliest entries.

The line of Slytherin intermarried often, and seemed prone to feuding. The result was that the group carrying the blood of the serpent never grew very large. Draco also guessed that the removed "blode trayters" were executed by the family. The power of Slytherin's blood could not be allowed to mingle with filth. Draco made a face when he saw that two pairs of cousins had married, each couple bearing one child; and then those two children married, having two children of their own; and then the son married the daughter. Slytherin was a blood purist, yes, but Draco doubted he would have wanted this.

He flipped to the last pages, saw the line of the greatest historical wizard—barring Merlin, perhaps—reduced to two names: Morfin and Merope Gaunt. No more was written in the book, but there was an unsealed envelope tucked between the last page and the back cover. Draco opened it and shook out the contents.

The first was a clipping from the _Prophet_. Morfin died in Azakaban with no heirs, having killed a family of muggles from the village his home was near. The next item wasn't proper parchment, but a very thin, flimsy sheet. Block letters at the top—some kind of stamp, Draco guessed—proclaimed it to be an "Official Copy." It looked like some sort of certificate of birth, though quite different from Draco's own. It was for a person named Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The slot for "Mother" was filled in as "Merope Gaunt," the father filled in as "Tom Riddle." Frowning, Draco looked at the _Prophet_ clipping again. Yes, the muggles Morfin Gaunt killed were named Riddle. Draco presumed the muggle Tom Riddle had raped Merope, and Morfin took revenge. Rather odd she'd named the child after him, though.

If the book was genuine, then it appeared that this half-blood Riddle was the most recent Slytherin heir. How painful for the family, who had given so much to stay pure through the ages! Surprising they hadn't aborted the child or killed it at birth. Merlin knew the family had surely killed for far less.

Draco was no longer surprised that the name "Gaunt" was unfamiliar to him. For the more—vertical—the Gaunt tree became, the less likely the Malfoys would associate with the family. No small number of wizarding families had died out through the centuries through their inbreeding. Thank Merlin Draco's ancestors were smart enough to marry foreigners from time to time, bringing fresh—though still unquestionably pure—blood into the family. Thus far only European purebloods had been deemed worthy, though Draco had once overheard his parents talking, saying if an American with the suitable attitudes and pedigree could be located, she might be acceptable.

But what made Lupin and the Order of the Phoenix so sure that Tom Riddle was the Dark Lord? Perhaps someone blasted from the family tree had survived the family and procreated. There were so many missing names from the book that it would be unusual for none of them to have escaped. Granted, so much time later it was unlikely that any other branches would be completely pure, either—if they were Draco would know who they were….

But before he could pursue that thought any further, Draco saw a final scrap of parchment, almost hidden by the _Prophet_ clipping. When Draco read it his stomach turned to ice. It was very simple; only seven words were on the parchment. The top line read, "Tom Marvolo Riddle," and the other read, "I am Lord Voldemort." There were little animated lines showing where a letter from the top line moved to in the bottom line.

Suddenly agitated, Draco started pacing. Was it genuine? The book itself, the papers in the envelope? He could not verify it, although the magic of the grimoire certainly felt true enough. Briefly, wildly, he thought of destroying the evidence, burning the book now. The Dark Lord's dread secret would be safe. He actually took a few steps towards the book before stopping and laughing a little hysterically. Each book in this house was well protected, and a book to last so long surely had any number of ancient protections of its own.

And then another thought: He'd been ready to follow a half-blood, to kill at his command. He'd knelt on a stone floor and kissed said half-blood's robes. He'd been used and cheated by the very one he'd been brought up to venerate. Furious tears slid down Draco's cheeks. The Dark Lord was making a mockery of Pureblood beliefs. He didn't really care about blood—how could he? If half-bloods were weak, then that made the Dark Lord weak as well. He was not purifying Wizarding society so much as he was wiping it out to create another more to his liking, populated by his own followers.

And Draco's family, his father, had fallen for it. Draco could not pretend that his crafty family was using the Dark Lord right back, not after the way his father poured their fortune into the cause and went to Azkaban without complaint. Not after seeing his insane aunt whispering endearments into the Dark Lord's ear, draping herself around his throne like a particularly vicious cat, languid in her movements. Not after Draco's mother killed herself rather than give up any of the Dark Lord's secrets.

His mother, his beautiful pure mother, had died for a half-blood. Draco's head jerked up when Lupin Apparated into the room, and he demanded, "Obliviate me!"

"What?" But then Lupin looked around and Draco knew the moment Lupin spotted the open grimoire, the envelope with its contents spilled across the table.

"I believe you," Draco said wretchedly. "Fine, you were right. I can't bear it—that Mother died for a half-blood. Please, take the knowledge away."

"Even if such a thing could be done safely, you know I wouldn't." Draco just shook his head. "Draco, Voldemort is a half-blood, and will remain so whether you keep this knowledge or not. Would you rather know the truth now, for all the pain it gives you, or would you prefer giving your loyalty to a man with a muggle father?"

"Everything was easy before I came here," Draco finally complained.

"Would you go back to your blissful ignorance if you could?" Lupin sounded genuinely curious.

Not having an answer, Draco shot him a look. "Are you _sure_ you weren't a Ravenclaw?"

"I like to think I'd have noticed," Lupin said with exaggerated patience. He nodded to the book. "Do you still want to look at that or should I take it back to Headquarters?"

Draco shrugged. "Go ahead. The relevant parts are all imprinted on my brain anyway." It came out sounding a bit sulkier than he would have liked.

Draco supposed if he accepted the Dark—if he accepted Slytherin's heir was a half-blood—then there was something else he had to accept. At dinner that night, he asked quietly, "Is it true Master Snape is a half-blood?"

Lupin paused. "Yes."

Draco pushed his plate away. He wasn't feeling very hungry. "But why would he become a Death Eater if one of his relatives was a mudblood?"

"I thought I'd made my opinion of that word clear."

"Oh, fine. Muggle, then. Why would he?"

Lupin cocked his head to one side, thinking. "I never knew Severus well, of course. But I did hear rumours even then that he wasn't particularly fond of his father. I do know that his Hogwarts years were not especially happy ones for him. In the Death Eater ranks he found acceptance, even appreciation for his skills."

"You never did tell me what he was like as a student."

"What would you like to know?"

"I don't know. I just can't picture it." That was true enough. Every time Draco tried he just imagined a shorter version of his professor.

"Severus was thin, a little gangly. It took him several years to grow into his arms and legs, so to speak, which left him a bit clumsy and certainly insecure. The oils of Potions-making which still affect his hair also caused quite bad acne, and his robes were rather shoddy, hand-me-downs." Lupin gave Draco a knowing look. "Most of his dorm-mates were well-aware of his half-blood status. You could probably tell me how such a student would fair in Slytherin House."

After the first sentence Draco knew he was gaping. Fortunately, he didn't have to answer, because Lupin went on, "He was able to purchase some favours from his housemates by making potions for them. But he got more real respect, I think, for his knowledge of the Dark Arts. The older Slytherin students quickly saw the advantage of having him on their side and made a place for him among Slytherin's elite."

Impossible to imagine Master Snape owing anyone anything. "I thought you said you didn't know him well," Draco said.

"I didn't. Some of those are educated guesses. But my group—James, Sirius, Peter and myself—had a relationship with Severus not unlike yours with Harry."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "You hated each other?"

"Immensely. James and Sirius in particular hated everything Severus stood for and held dear. They also were both popular, charming athletes who were all too aware of how good-looking they were. They were wonderful people and the best friends a boy could have, but they also were bullies when they were young and could be very cruel."

"And you said they were pranksters like the Weasley twins."

"I don't believe Fred or George ever managed to match James and Sirius's' number of detentions. It was probably also galling to Severus that Lily constantly bested him in potions, a bit like I imagine you felt when Hermione did better than you in class. And in Defense Against the Dark Arts, at which he was particularly good, he never was the head of the class, sometimes even fourth or fifth."

"Who was first in Defense?" Draco asked, sensing it might be important. Correctly interpreting Lupin's expression, he gasped, "You were!" Lupin nodded.

"Yes. I doubt he had ever hated me as much as James and Sirius except by association until he discovered my secret Sixth Year. If he was not already lost to the Light at that point, he certainly was when Albus did not expel Sirus and forbade Severus from telling anyone about my Lycanthropy."

Draco picked up his fork and poked at his potatoes, trying to reconcile the image Lupin's words conjured up with how he had always viewed Master Snape. He could see how such a boy would turn to the Dark Lord, despite being a half-blood. He just couldn't conceive of Master Snape being that boy.

"If he had such an awful time at Hogwarts, why would he come back to teach?"

"I have no idea," Lupin said. "I imagine Voldemort or Albus wanted him there, maybe even both. He certainly never showed any inclination towards teaching when we were in school. I remember when he was assigned to tutor a girl in Potions. She fled the Potions lab in tears in under fifteen minutes."

"Do you have any pictures of him?"

Lupin gave Draco a strange look. "I don't think so. If I do it's showing the results of a prank on him." Draco nodded in resigned acceptance. What was one more bitter truth he had to swallow?

December began clear and cold, and in the quiet of the early morning, the Aurors patrolling Hogwarts found Lisa Turpin's body. The story was splashed across the front page of the _Prophet_—somehow everyone understood she'd been recruited by the Dark Lord and refused. How had the cautious Ravenclaw been tricked into the Forbidden Forest? How had she not been missed? Draco stared a long time at the picture, of Aurors with stretched, grim faces and the shape of the blanket covering the body.

He'd sat across from Turpin in Runes, but they'd never spoken. He remembered her neat blond-brown ponytail. He remembered her complaining to her friend Brocklehurst—was Brocklehurst still alive? Draco didn't know—about the stray wisps of hair that always escaped. But when the Slytherins arrived the Ravenclaws always quieted, exchanging looks that were full of meaning.

Draco spread the newspaper on the floor so it would not be stained by any stray drops of the potions he was mixing. He obsessively studied and restudied Wolfsbane and remembered the entire process without glancing at the recipe. Each ingredient, each amount, each temperature, each timing. At night he dreamed about his mother and he dreamed about threatening shapes in dark robes, wielding wands and knives. And he dreamed about Wolfsbane, too, spent hours in his sleep shredding Essence of Lianda and counting out the four point two minute interval required between adding each dandelion petal.

The same day, Lupin gave Draco a new book, about a muggle convict. There was a forgiving priest who reminded Draco of Dumbledore somehow. Lupin seemed very interested in Draco's reaction to it—he said it was about redemption.

"Still trying to reform me, then?" Draco sneered, but he took the offered book. He'd long since finished the Wizarding fiction.

Lupin predictably replied, "Only you can do that." He paused. "I sometimes wonder if you realize just how far you've come." He Disapparated soon after.

So three days later found Draco sitting curled up in one of the chairs by the bookshelves with the book. He supposed he was supposed to find the hero's situation analogous to his own, but he didn't. The convict had it easy compared to Draco! First, all he had to redeem himself over was the theft of some bread—stolen for a starving family, no less. And what threat was hanging over his head if the Auror—or whatever muggles called them—caught him; life in prison? Draco faced prolonged torture and death. Stupid muggles. What did they know of fear?

Just then, there was a sound like a rushing wave, and a sudden warming of the air, and a small silver unicorn materialized before Draco. It looked a bit like a Patronus, yet even as Draco's book tumbled off his lap, he heard Lupin's voice in his head, speaking urgently, "Get out of the house right away, Draco. Aurors are coming to search it. Do _not_ go into the cellar. I'll be back when I can."

For a moment, Draco was frozen with shock. Then he moved. He put the book on the coffee table; he banished his teacup and teapot to the sink. Then, for the first time, he went to the door and opened it. Gentle hills met his gaze. No tree cover. No cover at all, really. Where could he go? The Longbottoms' was still insecure. Draco turned and studied the house. He could feel an idea pushing to get into his conscious mind. Another minute, and he'd have it….

When the teams of Aurors arrived fours minutes later, they wasted no time breaking into the silent cottage. If any of them had closely examined the roof, perhaps they would have seen the slight distortion of air that accompanied a Disillusioned person. But why would they have? They all knew the werewolf who lived here was at the Ministry for a routine interview, and that it lived alone.

Draco shivered and clung to the roof. Clearly he'd spent far too much time among Gryffindors—how else to account for the recklessness of his plan? To add to his misery, it began to drizzle and then rain in earnest, and he hadn't had the foresight to grab a cloak. What was taking them so long? It wasn't like the house was all that big, after all.

But eventually the Aurors came out again and walked around the house with suspicion written on their faces—although Draco didn't know what evidence of wrongdoing they expected to find in the remnants of the summer's vegetable garden. Finally they Apparated away. Draco waited for almost ten minutes before moving, just to be safe. His limbs were icy and difficult to move.

But all thoughts of fresh tea and hot water packs vanished when he entered the house. Amazingly, the nearly-finished Wolfsbane didn't look disturbed, but that wasn't what had caught Draco's attention. He had some idea what took the Aurors so long. The rug hiding the entrance to the cellar was shoved to one side, and the door to Lupin's office was hanging open.

* * *

The book Lupin gave Draco was, of course, _Les Miserables_, by Victor Hugo. 


	15. Lupin's Office

Neither Severus Snape nor the universe he inhabits belong to me.

15 - Lupin's Office

_Rumours  
__By Carter Murray_

_To know the words you say to me  
__Are true, causes a quake in me  
__And I know you're afraid of me  
__Afraid of what's inside of me  
__You don't ask how it came to me  
__I'd tell you how a beast bit me  
__But still you turn away from me  
__Spread rumours, and don't look at me  
__By starlit sky you hunt for me  
__And scare your young with talk of me  
__Good fortune has forsaken me  
__This curse has been the end of me_

-page 50, _Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature_

The door was open! The room Draco had only caught the smallest glimpses of, the room Lupin so often retreated to and blocked Draco from seeing. Draco surprised himself by hesitating a second—but only a second—before taking quick steps inside.

The office was small and unremarkable at first glance. A well-made but somewhat beaten desk was to Draco's left, against the wall that adjoined the sitting room. There was a window set in the wall next to it, with a perch that would accommodate two owls, maybe three. The other walls were lined with bookshelves; the floor was bare but for a single box. Draco lifted the lid and saw folded robes. He gingerly lowered it closed again.

The contents of these bookshelves were considerably darker than those in the main room, entire rows on the methodology behind the choice of a sacrifice and the theory underlying blood magic. The few Draco pulled out for a closer look even felt menacing—almost as though the magic in the volumes knew Draco was an interloper.

The Aurors had left little evidence of their presence here, and Draco felt uneasy. He knew Lupin would be back soon. What had he expected to find, anyway? But he did not go. Instead, he turned to the desk. It was overflowing with papers, perhaps seventy percent of them in Lupin's now-familiar scrawl.

Draco picked up on piece for a closer look. To his surprise, the paper read, "10/11 Nozguz. No on H's cup. R's inkwell, bookstamp? BM, MoM apps. to research." What could that possibly mean? Most of the other parchments were equally cryptic. Eventually, with the aid of a book titled, "Sirone: The Art of Tracing Magical Artifacts Through Time," Draco determined that Lupin was doing an extensive survey of magical artifacts. But what could that possibly have to do with the war against the Dark Lord?

Draco was just turning to go, disappointed by how mundane the office actually was, when he paused. Another copy of _Hogwarts, a History_? What could it be doing here? Draco pulled out the book, noting that this copy was not dusty as the ones in the main room were. As he suspected, there was niche cut out of the pages, a small box resting inside. The slight tingling of his fingers as he lifted it out told Draco the box had one or more charms upon it, and on a hunch he enlarged it.

It settled into a size about the same as a breadbox. Draco didn't try to force the gleaming lock open, instead using a complex combination of charms to vanish the box (but not the contents) and insubstantiate his hand. A moment later the box snapped back into physical being, but Draco had what he wanted—a fist full of parchments.

They were short letters—notes, really. There were no dates, but they were addressed to "Moony." Draco suspected they were from one of Lupin's school friends, kept for their sentimental value. But then the words, "Second Task," jumped out at him, niggling at his memory, and he read:

_Moony—Checked out that place we were talking about didn't find anything but a trap with water good thing the kits Brains made had gillyweed or we'd have been in trouble so guess the Second Task was good for something. Will see you in two days bring the paper as always. TBWWA_

"The Second Task," had to refer to the Triwizard Tournament, and there had only been one during Lupin's lifetime, meaning the letter was quite recent after all. Undoubtedly any of the Order could have gotten the idea to habitually carry Gillyweed, as Potter's use of it in the Tournament was common knowledge, but Draco guessed that the letter was from Potter himself.

After all, how many people would call Lupin, "Moony," now that his school friends were gone? The child of one of those friends, perhaps. The reference to the Second Task seemed personal, too. If it was Potter then "Brains" had to be Granger. Interested again, Draco quickly scanned some of the other letters.

_Moony—Place 3 on Sat. TBWWA_

_Moony—Welch's Arith. text, latest ed., for Brains. TBWWA_

_Moony—Set up meet with BW? Books on wards. TBWWA_

_Moony—You know to never trust a dragon. TBWWA_

Draco lingered over that one, suspicion aroused. It was possible that Potter (if Potter was indeed the writer; Merlin knew what "TBWWA" stood for) was talking about some literal threat. The Prophet had reported more than one dragon attack in recent weeks. And of course, Draco only had half the correspondence to work with—who knew what Lupin had said to elicit that response?

If it wasn't a literal dragon though, then Lupin had… Draco couldn't finish the thought. A part of him wanted to stop reading, to back out of the office and leave Lupin's secrets undisturbed. But he'd already come this far; he couldn't turn back now.

_Moony—Inkwell, you think? TBWWA_

_Moony—Chess says have any swords? TBWWA_

_Moony—Don't use Floo. Brain's testing ideas. TBWWA_

_Moony—Tell O goblin refuge? TBWWA_

_Moony—We need to talk. Shack? TBWWA_

_Moony—Don't trust him. TBWWA_

_Moony—Tell who're halfbloods. TBWWA_

At a soft, scuffing sound Draco spun around, only to see Lupin standing in the doorway to the office. His eyes were on the parchment clenched in Draco's hands rather than on Draco's face, and he was very pale. "Draco? What are you doing here?" When Draco only stared at him without responding, Lupin said, "I'd hoped you would not breach my trust this way."

It was the wrong thing to say. Draco opened his hands and let the parchments fall. "Well I wouldn't want to break all the _trust_ that's between us," he said bitterly. He didn't understand everything he'd read, but he understood enough. Lupin's expression of comprehension, quickly followed by one Draco couldn't place—guilt, perhaps?—only served to ignite Draco's anger.

He stormed past Lupin, stomping on the letters as he went, ranting, "I can't believe I trusted you. You said you wouldn't tell anyone I was here unless I agreed and I bought it!"

"Draco…."

Draco spun to face him. "How long has Potter known I was here?"

Lupin winced. "I sent him a message the moment you arrived. He and the others were all for handing you over to the Ministry, but I persuaded them not to."

"So you've been lying to me from the start! What else have you been lying about?"

"Nothing, Draco."

"I don't believe you! And don't call me that!" Draco lifted his wand and pointed it at Lupin. "You thought to turn a Malfoy to the Light with your lies! I should kill you now!"

Lupin spread his hands in what looked like a gesture of surrender. "Draco, I'm sorry."

"I said, don't call me that!" Draco's wand faltered. "Stop looking at me!"

For once, Lupin's face was completely open, with sorrow and remorse but a kind of quiet resolve as well. He said, "Are you going to kill me, Draco?"

"I should! I should right now and then undo everything you've done to me!" But Draco knew he wouldn't cast _Avada Kedavra_.

And Lupin undoubtedly knew it too, damn him, because he said, "Not everything can be undone."

So much had happened during the time he'd spent in this small house; neither the outside world nor Draco's mind could ever go back to the way they were before. Draco's gaze fell upon the bubbling cauldron in the corner. "Not everything… but this can!" He aimed a blasting hex at the stand the cauldron stood upon, and it readily collapsed. The expensive, volatile potion briefly ignited with flames of a brilliant red, and the half-done mixture spilled onto the floor.

"I trusted a _werewolf_!" Draco snarled. "I won't make that mistake again." Lupin started to say something else, but Draco reflexively sent a stunning spell his way, and the werewolf hit the wall hard before landing in a heap on the floor. Draco didn't look at the werewolf, just Disapparated.

Given his emotional state, it was a minor miracle he didn't splinch himself, but when he appeared in a field Merlin alone knew where, he still had all his arms and legs. For a moment Draco stood still, breathing heavily and clutching at his wand. His eyes stung a bit, but he did not cry. He was a man now, not a child.

The field was quiet and empty, desolate in the way a field can only be in winter. The only sign of habitation was a low stone wall off to Draco's right. After a few minutes, the adrenaline of Draco's flight began to wear off and he shivered. Now what? He could not go home—even if the manor allowed him entrance, the Ministry was surely watching it. To go almost anywhere else in the Wizarding World would be certain suicide. And even that would be better than returning to the werewolf.

Draco started walking as much to keep warm as anything else. When he reached the stone wall climbing over it seemed like too much trouble, so he turned and walked beside it. "I could go to Hogwarts," he mused aloud. His voice felt raw and very small. But could he even get close to Hogwarts, or through the wards? He knew better than to expect any allies there.

After some time, as the sun sank towards the horizon, the wall intersected a muggle road. As Draco paused in indecision, two bright lights appeared, followed shortly by a muggle carriage. Draco hadn't never seen one before, but he knew that was what it had to be. But how did to move without magic? He only got the briefest glimpse of the man inside as the—transport—flashed past. The man had combed-back brown hair and reading glasses and an unfriendly expression. In short, utterly unremarkable.

Draco started when he heard the rumbling sound the transporter made coming from behind him and turned—was the man coming back? But no, this one was red (the other black), and bigger, and there were two children sitting behind the man in front, gawking at Draco through the glass. Soon they were over the next small hill and out of sight. One way was as good as another, so Draco started walking that way too.

It grew dark quickly. Lupin would surely have woken by now—well unless he'd been really hurt from hitting the wall, but Draco was pretty sure that wasn't the case—and the werewolf was probably shut in his little office writing his little letters to Harry-Bloody-Potter. Draco scowled at the thought. The muggle carriages went by from time to time, though Draco couldn't see their occupants anymore. He thought he was getting rather used to their speed and noise, right up until one of them screeched to a sudden stop by Draco and made a truly awful blaring noise. Draco covered his ears.

When the sound ended, Draco watched the window of the transporter disappear into the door. It hadn't been vanished—muggles couldn't do that. Could they? But Draco didn't know how it had been done.

An angry-looking older man with wild white eyebrows demanded, "Just what do you think you're doing, young man? I nearly—"

Draco had had enough. He pulled his wand, pointed it at the shouting man, and said the first thing that came to mind. "_Imperio_!"

The old man immediately quieted, his eyes going confused, and in the abrupt silence Draco heard a frightened gasp. Looking closer, he saw that there was also an old woman in the car. Her terrified gaze darted between Draco and the man, presumably her husband. "What did you do to him?" she whispered.

Draco didn't bother answering her. He hoped he wouldn't have to curse her too; he didn't know if he could hold two people under the curse at once. "Let me in the—let me in," Draco willed the man, and he obediently turned around in his seat, opening the back door.

The woman gasped again as Draco slid in, and he could hear her whispering, "Gareth? Gareth? What's going on?" The man, "Gareth" apparently, did not answer, just started the—

This was getting ridiculous. "What is this?" Draco asked, fighting down his impatience at her confused expression. It was a perfectly simple question! "This transport. What is it?"

"A Vauxhall?"

What was she asking him for? At least he had a name now. "And that noise?"

She shifted in her chair to stare at him a moment, saying, "The horn?" and Draco belatedly realized that maybe these things were obvious to muggles, commonplace, and she couldn't figure out why Draco didn't know them. After a moment she gulped and said, "We don't have much money, really—"

"Quiet." She broke off with a little squeak, almost like a rabbit might make. But no, he was not going to think about the rabbits now. Pushing the memory away, he said, "Do as I say or I'll kill him." He couldn't, but the old muggle didn't know that.

About twenty minutes later Draco noticed more lights and buildings, and they turned down one street and then another and finally stopped before a small house. Bigger than Lupin's cottage, but still a hovel compared to the Manor, even compared to the Malfoy family's summer home. Draco followed the couple inside.

He allowed the man to sit down, and turned to the woman hovering in the doorway. "Make me something to eat." Another squeak, and she turned towards the kitchen. Draco could hear her rushing around and banging pots. The man would not move, so Draco examined the room. "What's this?" It looking a bit like a Wizarding Wireless.

"Stereo," the man answered dully, no even looking.

"This?"

"Telly." Draco experimentally pressed a button and jumped back and sounds spilled out, the box lighting up with moving pictures. Had the Statute of Secrecy been broken? Thankfully, pressing the same button silenced it.

"This?"

"Telephone." Telly and telephone? Draco pressed the numbered buttons, but nothing happened. Perhaps it was broken.

At a shuffling sound, Draco turned and saw the woman staring at him, holding a plate. She asked, "Are you an alien?"

Draco had been allowed to read the "Mad Muggle" comics until he was seven—long past time for him to put away such a foolish book, according to his father. The muggles in those stories were always crying, "Alien!" so Draco knew what it meant. He just snorted and went to get the food from her. She cringed slightly as he approached, sighing in relief when all he did was take the plate. "Sit," Draco ordered. She sat beside her husband and took his hands in hers. He didn't look at her.

The sandwiches were dry but Draco hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he started eating. When he finished, he resumed examining the room, namely the unmoving photos on the walls. There were many pictures of the couple now seated across the room, their faces fixed in the uncomfortable smile so common to the older generation. And pictures of what were presumably the couple's children and grandchildren, all smiling widely. Some pictures were from houses—this one, perhaps—and some from beaches and some from public gatherings of one sort or another. No photos hung at Malfoy Manor. They had ornate paintings of their forbears.

Finally Malfoy turned and looked at the couple. He cancelled the Imperio, only realizing how much the curse drained him by his resulting lightheadedness. The husband charged at Draco with a roar; Draco cast a full Body-bind and watched with satisfaction as the man fell stiffly back onto the sofa. His wife couldn't repress a cry.

"This is what is going to happen," Draco told them coldly. "You will go about your lives with one exception—I will stay here for a time. This will be a secret. Not a single soul is to know. You will make me meals and do anything else I may require. In return, I will allow you both to live. If one of you should in any way reveal my presence here, the other shall die….first. If both of you reveal that I am here, I will find the people in these photographs one by one and take my vengeance upon them." One of the pictures caught his gaze, of a girl close to his own age, with long dark hair and a smattering of freckles. "….beginning with her." To the man he said, "I trust you will behave yourself," and released the Body-bind.

"Who are you?" gasped the man. "What are you?"

"That is none of your concern. Do we understand each other?" The man looked as though he wanted to say something else, but the woman touched his arm, and he looked at her, and stilled.

"We do," he said softly. Hate was in his eyes. The three of them sat stiffly into the night, no one talked or making eye contact, the couple tightly holding hands. And that was the first day.

Draco's orders were more or less to make a space for him (known only by the three of them) but to otherwise behave normally. He didn't want suspicious neighbors or family questioning his "hosts" too much. So he couldn't help but learn more about the two, little though he cared for it.

The man was Gareth. He was retired but went fishing every week and spent weekday mornings at the pub talking with his friends about sport and politics. He hated Draco. The woman's name was Regina. Her health was poor and she missed her children. One lived in London, and one lived in the United States (it took Draco some time to puzzle "American" out of that name—apparently the muggles had broken the New World down into any number of countries). And one son she despaired of ever settling down, she told Draco.

"This one's from Thomas. I tell you, I despair of him ever settling down. He's wandering about Africa now, says he's going to Bangladesh soon." They were sitting in the kitchen, Draco sipping some tea and thinking very circular thoughts, while the muggle woman looked over the post. She sighed heavily. "Why would he go there?" Draco would have thought she was talking to herself, but then she said, "Does your mother know you're here?" _Does she know what you are doing_, was the implied question.

"My mother is dead," said Draco, and her eyes widened.

Regina met a circle of other women for a weekly card game, though it sounded more like a gossip circle than anything else. She hosted the gathering that weekend, and Draco stood inside the door to the master bedroom, listening to make sure she didn't say anything she shouldn't. He was struck by how it was to the way he'd imagined Augusta Longbottom's charity society to be.

It seemed that Draco had nearly by chance fallen into the perfect way to hide the remainder of the war. There was just one small problem—how would he know when the war was over?

* * *

Once upon a poetry class, I read a really clever poem about looking in a mirror; every line ended with the word "you." Naturally I've forgotten the title and author, but it did inspire the poem at the start of this section. And--is Draco right to feel so betrayed, do you think? 


	16. Hufflepuff's Cup

Purpleshrub is relishing her Stargate geekiness (though she did look through real Zen koans before settling on this one). Gareth and Regina do belong to me, actually. But the canon HP characters do not, and neither does the universe they inhabit.

16 – Hufflepuff's Cup

_Lightning flashes, sparks shower; in one blink of your eyes you have missed seeing._

_-Stargate SG-1 (Episode 320: Maternal Instinct)_

They were sitting around the kitchen table, eating a soup dish one of Regina's friends had clipped from a magazine. "Daniel?" Regina asked tentatively (she'd asked him days ago if she could call him that and he'd shrugged), "Why are you doing this?"

Draco's spoon paused midway to his mouth. Before he could speak, Gareth leaned forward, "I think you owe us an explanation."

"I don't owe you anything," Draco retorted, but there was little heat behind the words. What did it matter if he told them a little? He'd already irrevocably broken the Statute of Secrecy. "I'm in hiding."

"From whom?" Gareth questioned. "Why?" His eyes asked, "What did you do?" Regina looked nervously between Draco and her husband.

"Gar—"

He ignored her. "Well? 'Daniel?'"

Draco said, "You couldn't possibly understand."

"Try me."

For several long minutes, the only sound in the room was the ticking clock. Draco stared into his soup; Gareth glared at Draco; Regina hid her shaking hands under the table and looked from one man to the other.

At last, Draco sad, "I was given a task. To kill someone."

Regina gasped, and Gareth leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Your mother?"

"Of course not!" Draco snapped. Regina must have told her husband about Draco's throwaway comment—that his mother was dead. But what a conclusion to draw! Were such things common in the muggle world…? With effort, he gathered his thoughts. "I didn't kill Du—I didn't kill the person. The people who did—they want to punish me for failing."

Regina's eyes softened. "I'm sure the police would protect you, if you gave information on the killers—"

Draco shook his head, and rose from the table. "Your 'pleese' cannot help me." He stalked into the sitting room and turned on the telly. It was rather embarrassing how quickly he'd grown—fond—of the contraption. But it wasn't as though the Wizarding World would ever know.

He heard footsteps and knew one of the muggles had followed. He didn't turn around, just waited, and soon enough Gareth said, "Do you intend to stay here indefinitely?" Draco snorted at the very idea, and at the poorly-concealed eagerness in the muggle man's voice. But when Draco made no further answer, Gareth walked around chair, blocking Draco's view of the telly, and asked plainly, "When are you leaving?"

Some of the same words, and yet Lupin had said them so differently. But then, Lupin had understood the position Draco was in. Draco didn't want to think about Lupin. Or Dumbledore, or Master Snape, or Potter, or the Dark Lord. He didn't want to know which of his classmates had been killed in the last several days, and he wanted to believe that he could go home again. It wasn't that he wanted to stay in the muggle world, because he certainly didn't. He just wanted the nightmare gripping the Wizarding World to be over.

He was broken out of his thoughts when Gareth repeated, "When?"

Draco shrugged, every bit the aristocrat. "When I choose to do so."

Regina had joined them. "It's just—well, our daughter Hailey and her husband always come for the holidays, and we don't know how we can hide you from them, in the house." She twisted her hands.

The holidays. Merlin's beard. How could he have forgotten? Well—he hadn't been outside in ages, and the house wasn't decorated for the Yule. "What—what day is it?"

"The 17th. So you see it's coming right up, in fact, they're driving up from London Tuesday night, so—"

But Draco had stopped listening. Decemer 17th! That meant—he had missed Sunday's full moon. What if Dora thought he'd be there to help Lupin and didn't come herself? Lupin might have—but he didn't care about Lup—about the werewolf. Did he? Abruptly, Draco rose, starling the muggles, and stalked past them into "his" room.

He flung himself on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He knew he couldn't go on living in limbo like this. And did staying away from the fight him make him cunning, as he'd always thought, or simply a coward? "It's not as thought the moon is the only danger, anyway," Draco thought darkly. "He could just as easily have been killed another way, randomly or not. And if they'd come for him, I couldn't—wouldn't—have helped him anyway." Couldn't or wouldn't—that was the question.

He had to know, one way or the other. He concentrated, and the sound of his Disapparation was quiet enough that the muggles didn't hear a thing. And so Draco found himself standing in front of Lupin's cottage. It looked quiet as always. A fresh snowfall had covered the tracks made by the Aurors when they searched the house.

No smoke came from the chimney, so Lupin probably wasn't home. Draco wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed by that. He had no idea what to say to the man—the werewolf. But if no one was home, Draco would be no closer to answering his question; if Lupin was still alive.

The door was not locked, but that was not much of a surprise. Most Wizards preferred to rely on their wards for information about visitors. And apparently, Lupin's wards still accepted Draco. An oversight?

It was dark inside the house, and even after Draco lit the lamps, there were more shadows than he remembered. The door to Lupin's office was closed, but the others were open, and there was no sign of Wolfsbane on the floor (the cauldrons and other Potions supplies were stacked to one side in the bedroom). Certainly there was no Lupin, crumbled against the wall where Draco had left him. Not that Draco had expected that, of course.

The only sign of habitation were the rolled-up copies of the _Prophet_ on the table in the dining area. Lupin didn't have a paid subscription, so if no one was home to pay the delivery owl, it just flew away. Draco glanced at the date on the nearest paper, seeing it was for 16 December. Two days after the full moon, so someone had been here to take the paper. And they wouldn't have if Lupin was dead, Draco thought.

Now that he was back, Draco couldn't imagine returning to the muggle house. They would figure out he was gone soon enough. He started some tea and, with some reluctance, poked through the newspapers, looking for the oldest. But he stopped short when he saw the headline for 15 December:

YOU-KNOW-WHO TAKES AZKABAN

The subheading was: 40 MLEs Reported Killed.

There was a picture of Azakaban Island, all grey and black stone, the picture's only movement the dull, churning sea. Draco bit his lip and read the article. One guard had been portkeyed alive to the Ministry, his stomach slashed open. His name was Maxwell Jordan, and he was a lower-ranking guard.

"We felt a shudder an' then the alarm went off. The Cap'in said it wasn't a drill an'—an' set orders to kill all the high security prisoners. An' we did, well they did an' I stood by the door, an' then He came, an' he was so… he killt all the others, so fast, an' hit me, an' told me to tell the Minister…. Britain will be his by year's end."

The article said that Jordan was expected to live and in a Ministry safe house. And then there was quite a lot of frenzied speculation about whether the Captain of the Guard really had illegally ordered the execution of imprisoned Death Eaters before they could be released, and whether that was a good thing or a bad one.

If any Death Eaters had been killed, Lucius Malfoy was surely among them. Draco was almost certainly an orphan now. Such an ugly word, orphan. Draco remembered laughing, sneering at Potter, "Haven't got any parents, have you?" and now, sitting in this too-quiet room with dry eyes, eight days before Christmas, Draco finally felt the smallest bit of sympathy for Potter. Potter still was a total berk, though. It was something of a solace to be able to hold onto to at least one of his pre-Lupin convictions.

Draco doubted his mother would have blasted him off the family tapestry without his father's urging, and even if she had, he was still the last of the Malfoys. He was the family Head; in theory, he now had both the power and the money to do as he wished. If he could just get in and out of Gringotts safely, the goblins didn't ask questions. If he could just get into the Manor, there were any number of emergency Portkeys to locations around the world, and Draco was certain they would take him through the Portkey barriers layered over Britain. Father taught that a Malfoy always left himself a way out. So many "ifs!"

Was his father free on Azkaban now, again at his Master's side? Was he renouncing Draco, as Master Snape said he would? Was he dead in his cell, an idea inconceivable to Draco, or had someone put him into the sea? There was an old rumor they got rid of bodies that way, ones that no one would claim. And Draco was hardly queuing up to sign on the dotted line.

Was he upset about Lucius? Draco didn't know. He did—respect—his father. Care for him. He'd always obeyed his father, for to do otherwise would bring shame upon the Malfoy line, and that was unacceptable. But love was Mother's domain. Draco knew he wasn't his father, now. He couldn't follow in his father's footsteps. But whether he could make the Malfoy legacy his own—select and discard traditions as it suited him—was another matter. Although he did not cry, Draco's mind turned over the same thoughts again and again. He fell asleep just as natural light was beginning to creep in through the windows.

The post owl woke him, and he found a few knuts on the coffee table to pay the bird. As always, there were more names. The only one Draco knew was Susan Bones. She was murdered inside Hogwarts, by another Hufflepuff in their year, Wayne Hopkins. Draco doubted he'd be able to pick Hopkins out in a crowd, and he didn't have the Mark. Although Draco hadn't either… investigators had initially thought it a lover's quarrel. At least until, when questioned, Hopkins sputtered with outrage at the thought of touching a half-blood abomination.

IS HOGWARTS SAFE? asked the editorial pages. A bit late to be asking that question, Draco thought. He spent the afternoon paging through a few of Lupin's books on healing, and practiced making a few of the most useful potions. First, he'd needed to properly clean the Potions supplies, which Lupin must have simply Scourified a few times before putting aside. The easiest to test was the Blood Replenishing Potion (no substitute for a true transfusion, but sufficient for St. Mungoes Fast-Response team to get their charges to the hospital alive). All Draco had to do was give himself a small cut, and drink the potion down.

Lupin did not return that day. That night, Draco dreamed of his father. Lucius stood in his best dress robes, not a hair out of place, and breathed, horrified, "Draco…. What have you done?" Then Draco's line of vision grew and twisted, and he saw that his father's hands were covered with blood. Draco jolted awake, and it was several minutes before his heart slowed and quieted.

On 19 December, the Prophet reported the discovery of the body of "a known werewolf." Did that mean Greyback? Or Lupin? Or someone else? Agitated, Draco skimmed the contents of the bookshelves again, hoping to find something to distract himself with. It was a book on the highest shelf that caught his eye, sandwiched between two copies of _Howarts, a History_. It was _Magik of Blood and Soul_, by Frederick Phelps. Slowly and with great deliberation, Draco took the book down.

Scrying spells and potions were chapter three. Naturally, Draco was most interested in the potions. Most required some hair or some blood of the person sought. All required the blood of the potionmaker. Draco decided to use a potion called "Looking Glass." It was not the easiest of the potions, nor the fastest to give results, but he already had the necessary ingredients. And it showed the object of the potion clearly, with the surrounding area's details clear enough for an apparition jump.

When each bit was ready, from the splinters of oak to hair pulled of a brush in the toilet to the small vial of Draco's blood, he carefully began the potion. As he completed the final steps, he intoned,

"When this berry, crushed, does bleed  
Magic gathers in the sea

When I add this strand of hair  
The magic crackles in the air

When this petal feeds a flame  
I chant this chant, I speak your name

When blood flows into cauldron black  
Then I am ready to attack

When this potion waxes blue  
Grip your dagger, I've found you."

As the magic sprang to life, Draco felt icy fingers scrape down his spine. His vision felt distorted, and everything had a red hue, while there was a whistling in his ears that sounded frighteningly like screaming—though animal or human, he couldn't tell. Draco's power, which usually felt light and yet vast, pooled in his palms, now felt saturated with something sticky. And stretched out, as the magic of the spell tugged at it. He might have fallen over, spent, but for a sudden rush of Dark energy. Draco laughed, a harsh sound that resonated bizarrely in his own ears, and in the absence of anyone else to harm, traced a long, jagged cut in his own arm.

The resulting pain brought him back to himself, and he felt fortunate to have the Blood Replenisher at hand. A picture formed in the flat surface of the potion, and Draco leaned forward to see it closely. At first he thought there was a mistake, because he saw not Lupin, but The-Boy-Who-Lived, ascending a rough stone staircase, his wandtip lit. Then Draco saw a taller shape beside Potter, his wand at ready. _Lupin_. But why was it so dark? Without pausing to consider the best option, Draco noted as many details of the room as he could, caught up his cloak, and Apparated.

He landed in a heap at the base of what was presumably the staircase he'd seen Lupin on. With no idea where he was, he decided not to chance lighting his wand, and so began to feel his way up the stairs. The Dark Magic he had worked still coursed through his veins, but the cold, wet stone helped to ground him.

The staircase was winding its way up, that much was obvious. The steps got narrower as Draco went, and he placed his feet with care. There was no sound from the path ahead. Draco nearly stumbled when the path stopped going up. He felt around carefully and even lit his wand long enough to be sure there was only one possible path. That being the case, Draco started forward, silencing his footsteps because they seemed far louder than normal.

The passageway opened into a large room, with only one other exit, this one into another room, and then another beyond that. At the seventh room, Draco stepped forward only to be bounced back—some kind of magical barrier. He cast _Lumos_ and saw in the room ahead seven stone daises, each with an identical golden cup upon it. Potter stood before one, and Lupin before another. Potter turned and said something, so perhaps there was a silencing charm on the room. Did the charm go both ways?

"Lupin!" Draco called, but neither the werewolf nor Potter turned around. They also did not appear to notice the weak light given off by Draco's wand. Lupin shook his head and cast a spell, the cup before him melting into a small golden puddle, then moved to the next dais.

Lupin was alive, if pale and haggard. His face had the pinched look of someone with a constant headache, and the knees of his trousers were covered in mud (Potter's were too, Draco noted). Although Draco had no idea what they were doing, they seemed so very intent on destroying the golden cups that Draco couldn't help but watch.

An orange spell shot out of Potter's cup, but he quickly twisted out of the way, and set it melting with a little flourish. Physically, Potter looked nearly the same as Draco remembered, though thinner (the lost weight gave him a skeletal appearance); but he had the eyes of an old man.

Just as Draco's interest was starting to lag, Lupin stiffened before a cup (his third). He called to Potter, never taking his eyes off the cup, and Potter came to his side, casting a few spells as well. They held a brief conversation, and Draco guessed that they disagreed about something. Lupin was hard to read, but Draco recognized the angry set of Potter's mouth. He knew the exact moment that Potter relented, as the other boy looked like he'd eaten something sour. Potter stood with his wand at ready, and Lupin took a deep breath, and started casting spells at the cup.

And more spells, and more spells. As Potter and Draco stood watching like statues, Lupin was the only one of the three to move at all, and that wasn't saying much—his wand movements were tight and controlled, his lips barely parting to speak words Draco couldn't hear. The cup started to gleam with a blood-red sheen.

Then Potter gave a choked cry—Draco couldn't hear it but he could see it—clutching his forehead and first falling to his knees, then dropping his wand, then writhing on the floor. Draco could see blood between his fingers. Lupin said something but didn't turn from the cup—and then light exploded out of it, sending out a ring of sick-looking light out in a circle around waist height. The light passed harmlessly over Potter, but threw Lupin to the floor and crashed into the room's magical barrier.

Although the spell was contained, the barrier fell, so Draco heard Potter scream, "Moony!" and push off the pain he was evidently experiencing to go to the werewolf's side. Draco hurried forward as well, as Potter called to Lupin again, this time softer, but again got no response. His eyes widened at the sight of Draco. "Malfoy! What are you doing here?"

"Is he alive?"

Potter sighed, and smoothened a few strands of hair back from Lupin's face. "Only just, and I don't know for how long." His gaze turned distant. "I told him I should be the one to do it…."

Draco knelt down at Lupin's other side, and took one of the werewolf's hands. It was cold. "What did the cup do?" he breathed, more to himself than anything else, but at his words Potter got up, and cast a few spells at the cup. Draco didn't recognize them, but they seemed diagnostic in nature.

Potter sighed in relief. "He's destroyed it. Thank Merlin." He scooped up the cup, shrank it, and tucked it into his robes.

"What was it?" Draco asked, not getting up.

Potter thought for a moment. "It was something of Voldemort's. Oh, come on, even you can't say his name?—He protected it, but not well enough." A grim smile that didn't reach his eyes flickered over Potter's face and was gone. Casting his gaze over Lupin's prone form, Potter said, "Since you're here, will you look after him? Help him, if you can? I have to go."

"What?" Draco exclaimed. "Where? Why?"

"Hogwarts. I had a vision. Voldemort is there right now." The attack on Hogwarts! Draco had always known it was coming, but now? Truly? He forced himself to listen, as Potter was still talking. "Don't take him to St. Mungo's, Voldemort has spies there who will kill any Order member on sight." He paused, then said, "If you care at all which way this war ends, come to Hogwarts when you can. We'll need every person we can get."

"What makes you think I'll fight with you?" Draco asked. Potter looked pointedly at where Lupin's limp hand rested within Draco's own, then Disapparated.

Lupin's breathing was growing shallower. Though he knew he could not expect a response, Draco whispered, "I don't know what to do." He couldn't take Lupin, clammy and losing body heat fast, back to the cottage. His medical skills were far too meager, and he had no supplies to speak of. Potter was correct—St. Mungo's was out of the question. And Draco could only imagine the reactions if he brought Lupin to the muggle house. In fact, there was only one real possibility. Draco wrapped his arms around Lupin, feeling terribly self-conscious; he was not an especially tactile person. But for Side-Along Apparition, there was no other option. A tug from behind his navel, and the room was once again empty, the remaining gold cups glowing faintly in the darkness.


	17. Hogwarts

This section is somewhat more graphic, because Draco is not just reading about events, he's there as they happen. Again, if you think I gave this story the wrong rating, please email me before the site admins! Neither Hogwart nor her inhabitants belong to me.

17 – Hogwarts

_Godric loved the open fields and the nearby forests. Whenever possible, he held his lessons out-of-doors.  
__Helga designed all the common rooms. All the students came to think of Hogwarts as home.  
__Salazar added secret passages by the dozen, little rooms with no doors, some hiding one treasure or another, if one knew where to look.  
__Ravenclaw sometimes stood on the cusp of the school's wards. She was so very attuned to Magic—she breathed it, she saw the shape of it around her, in a way that others could not._

_I believe this to be true—I see it in my heart, Ravenclaw swaying to the music of the wards, as surely as I see the page and quill before me. And if I believe it, does my imagination not make it so?_

_Ignatius Credo, philosopher (Ravenclaw, class of 1347)_

It being the dead of winter, darkness had already settled over the countryside, and the plants Draco remembered growing near the gate were iced-over brown stems. The wards didn't permit him entrance, and Lupin wasn't moving under his own power. So, although lights were already coming on in the elves' guardhouse, and in one room of the manor, Draco still sent up red sparks—the universal call of distress.

The house elf gibbered when it saw him, but Draco only had eyes for the woman emerging from the house. He called to her, "Help!"

Augusta Longbottom looked down her nose at him. "Young Malfoy. And reeking of Darkness." Her gaze flicked over Lupin and then back to Draco again, if anything, steelier. "And that is one of your Death Eater friends in disguise?"

Of course—he no longer had Jacob Elliott's features to hide behind. "I'm not a Death Eater," Draco said, lowering Lupin all the way to the ground as gently as he could, then pulling up his sleeve to reveal his pale, unmarked arm. "And it is Lupin. He can't go to Mungo's but he needs help, badly. I think—he's…." Her eyes seemed to see right through him, though he detected no Legilimency probe.

"Stand back." Draco reluctantly did so, and with quick, sure actions surprising in one her age, Mrs. Longbottom and the house elf drew Lupin within the manor's wards. She cast a few spells Draco didn't recognize, and looked grim. Well, more so than usual.

"What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything to him," Draco said urgently. "He set off some kind of reaction…. There was a ring of light that hit him."

"Magical backlash?" she questioned. "How did this happen?"

"I—I don't really know," Draco admitted. "Potter could tell you. He went on to Hogwarts."

"Hogwarts? For a visit or a battle?"

"A battle, I think. _The_ battle."

Mrs. Longbottom's mouth twisted into a deeper frown. "What are you doing here then? Go on, I'll see to him."

Still Draco hesitated. "Will he be alright?" But the look on her face said it all—that she didn't think so. Draco watched as she cast Leviocorpus and started towards the manor. She did not invite him through the wards, and the house elf was clearly watching him. After the figures of the old woman and unconscious man disappeared into the house, and more lights turned on, Draco turned on his heel, drew a breath, and focused on the road from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts.

The scene was one of total chaos. There seemed to Draco to be an inordinate number of people, all milling around in terrified confusion. A number of buildings were on fire, only partially illuminating the night sky, and most people were either Apparating away or fleeing into the forest. But those at Hogwarts did not have the option of Apparating, and if they tried running from the grounds to the village, it would be a gauntlet of the bloodiest kind.

If it was daylight, Draco could have seen the rising towers of the school, but the only things now visible were the lights. Many, many flashes of light. "I must be out of my mind," he muttered to himself, and then headed towards the battle at a run, somehow avoiding the patches of ice on the ground.

When he rounded the last corner, and the fields lay out before him, Draco paused, taking in the scene. The silhouettes of the fighting witches and wizards were stark against the dusting of snow. Here and there, he could make out more shapes huddled on the ground. At length, he ran forward.

As he entered the fray, Draco found himself immediately on the defensive. First an Auror sent a stunner his way, which he dodged, a student he didn't recognize with a Ravenclaw badge tried to disarm him, which Draco easily blocked, and a Death Eater cast _Avada_ _Kedavra_. Draco threw himself to the ground and watched the Auror and Death Eater fighting. A soft, choked sound made him turn.

It was the Ravenclaw. There was a well-shined Prefect's badge pinned to his robes as well, so he as probably a Fifth or Sixth Year. As their eyes met, both Draco and the boy fumbled for their wands. The boy hissed, "You're Draco Malfoy!"

Draco saw no reason to deny it, and whispered back, "Where are the other students?"

"I'll never tell you!" In the same moment, they saw a dark blue curse flying their way, and as one rolled away from it.

"Idiot!" Draco snarled, keeping his voice low. "Haven't you noticed? The Death Eater just tried to kill me!" A trace of uncertainty flickered across the Ravenclaw's face. Draco pressed, "Just tell me the situation." The Ravenclaw shot off a quick _Protego_ and Draco followed suit. He considered conjuring a hood to hide his distinctive blond hair, but didn't want yet another reason for Hogwart's defenders to consider him a Death Eater.

When the Ravenclaw began to speak, it was in low, clipped tones, the strain of holding his shield for so long showing in his voice. "McGonagall is in the castle maintaining the wards but the other professors are all here. They gave the Fifth Years and up the option of coming out and most of us did. But _they_ have snakes, Inferi, villagers under the _Imperious_, and werewolves."

"There can't be werewolves, it's not a full moon," Draco snapped, feeling impatient.

"In their human form I mean. I recognized Fenrir Greyback—I saw his picture in the paper. He jumped at someone and started clawing at him."

When three pale orange curses came their way, Draco turned away from the boy and sent off a few curses of his own. Nothing fatal, as he didn't know which side the attacker was on. He was belatedly realizing that he wasn't in any position to know who to curse—both sides were equally likely to see him as the enemy. But excepting a few students who had come to the battle on behalf of the Dark Lord, most people in Hogwarts robes were likely to be Light Wizards.

"We need to get away from here," Draco whispered, and turned back to his companion. The other boy was turning blue, a panicked look on his round face. The irony of strangulation hexes was how remarkably easy they were to break—if one had the use of his voice. Draco cancelled the hex and sent _Reducto_ at the Death Eater who had been watching and laughing. Then he leaned down in front of the boy. "Where are the Hogwarts students?"

"I don't really know…. I got separated from them. That way maybe?" Draco followed him closer to the castle, again casting mostly defensive spells. The fighting seemed concentrated in two areas. Some small, detached part of Draco's mind was astounded that thus far, he'd only been dealing with stragglers from the main fight.

One swarm of people, he discovered, consisted of the residents of Hogwarts and many, many attackers. Here, determining friend from foe would be much easier. He saw Flitwick, spinning around two attackers in a display or acrobatics before felling them both with one invisible curse. He saw Hufflepuffs standing back to back, calling warnings to each other and firing spell after spell without pause. And as a path opened before him, Draco saw Neville Longbottom. It took him a moment to recognize the Gryffinfor—when had the timid little squib become a warrior, anyway?

Then the stinging of a hex glancing off his leg brought Draco back to himself. He spun around and sent a bludgeoning hex at the attacker, and from behind the skull mask he heard a very familiar pained grunt. _Goyle_.

He couldn't see Goyle's eyes of course but he could imagine the dumb confusion on his—acquaintance's—face. The hex had hit Goyle directly on the neck, and as his blocky figure crumpled to the ground, Draco backed away.

Crabbe and Goyle had never been his equals but they had always been there. He'd shut them out of his mission Sixth Year, and while he'd spent the last several months with nothing to do but reflect, they'd obediently continued along the paths they were raised for. Until now. Crabbe must be somewhere nearby, if he still lived, and Draco hoped to Merlin their paths would not cross.

He did his best to lose himself in the fighting, to focus his attention entirely on his surroundings. But that sound, so soft and familiar, and caused by him…. He was helping another student up—he realized it was a Gryffindor only as the girl stammered a thank you—when from the battle's other center, he heard Potter's voice; "Kill the snake!"

Which snake? Death Eaters were conjuring them left and right. In the confusion of the swarm of bodies, the light from the visible hexes cast the shapes of the serpents into strange, writhing shadows. Draco had no idea which snake Potter might mean.

A shout went up about five yards to Draco's right, though, and the crowd of Hogwarts students pressed in that direction. Still he couldn't see the snake, until as the shadows shifted, they resolved into a shape Draco knew—that of the Dark Lord's pet.

Longbottom had taken up Potter's cry. "Get the snake, get the snake! But watch your backs! Partner up!" And the students obeyed—mostly. When Draco turned to the person next to him, he came face-to-face with a Hufflepuff from his year, Maxilum or something like that. The Hufflepuff's eyes widened, and he turned away decisively.

Another student stepped beside Draco, and he was surprised to see his housemate Tracey Davis. She visibly brightened when she saw him. "Thank Merlin!" she exclaimed, smoothly dropping into position to support him. "I thought I was the only Slytherin out here—defending, I mean."

Draco and Davis had never been allies within Slytherin, but neither had they been enemies, Davis always taking care to stay out of Draco's feuds. Rather than attacking the snake directly, they set about providing cover for those who were. Even as Draco cast one shield, deflected one curse, he was assessing the rest of the battle. The Death Eaters and those fighting with them, willingly or otherwise, came in wave after wave. But Draco also saw many students he recognized from his own year.

Dean Thomas was conjuring balls of fire and sending them at the Inferi. Mandy Brocklehurst and Lavender Brown were killing the smaller, yet still deadly snakes of the Death Eaters. Megan Jones was rushing between wounded students, eyes wild and hair in disarray. Porkeys were blocked and the castle was sealed; there was no place to send them. Hannah Abbott and Terry Boot were directing the younger students, the Fifth and Sixth years.

Then the fireballs stopped. Thomas's wand was blasted to pieces right in his hand. He only had a moment to gape at the splinters embedded in his skin before the light of another curse washed over him, and he fell. Then the Inferi rushed forward, their wide-open jaws revealing jagged teeth. Immediately more people started conjuring fires, but the damage was done, and horrific shrieks came from where the Inferi had found prey.

Longbottom now had one arm dangling uselessly at his side—but speed wasn't his strength anyway, Draco recalled, ducking another Cruciatus. Longbottom hadn't seen Draco. A roar went up when one of the Gryffindor's spells gave the great snake a gash—even though the minor injury only seemed to anger it. And Draco briefly heard Potter's voice again, yelling—something. He couldn't make out the words. "How is he still alive?" Draco gasped as Davis spun close.

Not taking her eyes off the purple curse passing through where she'd been a moment before, Davis said matter-of-factly, "You-Know-Who wants to kill Potter himself. The Death Eaters are just to tire him and keep him from the rest of the fight. But—"

One Death Eater tried to be clever and transfigured a wand from the ground into a sword. Draco smirked; the Death Eater must not have known that Malfoys started studying the art of fencing at the age of four. The blade heading for Draco's throat was easily blocked and sent into his opponent's stomach instead. He exchanged a look with Davis, and in unspoken agreement they ran towards the thrashing snake. On the way, they passed MacMillian's body.

Davis sent up a Patronus (Draco didn't make out the shape) and finished her earlier thought, "But Potter isn't showing the same restraint. He's cast the Killing Curse three times already that I saw." A breath, and she started to continue, but stumbled, breaking off with a dismayed cry. The rust-coloured snake at her feet reared back and then struck her ankle a second time. A second later it was gone, a bloody mess on the snow, but the bite could not be undone.

"Go on," Davis said. "I'll go back to Jones." Her tone brooked no argument. As Draco headed further into the melee alone, he heard her call, "Be careful! We don't want the outcome to rest on the _Hufflepuffs_!"

The snake was retreating now, though still not beaten, and Longbottom's group pushed after it. Draco heard a quiet snap as he stepped forward and froze in horror when he realized he'd stepped on a human arm. At least the man was beyond any pain. Another louder, sharper cracking sound made Draco's stomach twist, but… was that… Apparition? But Apparation was impossible on the Hogwarts grounds! It couldn't be—but the Death Eaters ringing around Potter now cast about in confusion. The Boy-Who-Lived was gone.

Draco kept firing spells, but his mind felt numb. It was like he was surrounded by fog, the people all around very far away, the bodies dotting the ground abstract art. Why had he come, anyway? Lupin had never asked this of him. And besides, Lupin would never know Draco was here. He was dying, or dead, just like everyone else.

It was in that moment that a Death Eater interrupted Draco's thoughts, saying conversationally, "Well, well, well. If it isn't Draco—you can't possibly be a Malfoy anymore, so it must be just Draco."

Draco recognized the voice; Timothy Plesser. A few years older than Draco, he'd devoted most of his Hogwarts years to hoping everyone would somehow forget the muggleborn great-grandmother on his mother's side. As if any of them ever would. Draco'd had more influence in his first year than Plesser'd had in his seventh.

Plesser continued, "Were you a traitor all along, I wonder? Or did you simply not have the courage, the cunning, to—"

"_Avada Kedavra_." Plesser fell. Draco stared dumbly at the body. Though he knew it was an illusion, the battle raging around him seemed to still. Though he could not see them, Draco looked at where the skull mask hid the eyes of the person before him. "Master Snape."

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

Draco shivered. "I don't know," he admitted. "I didn't know what else to do. Lupin is hurt, I think he might be dead—"

"You're still with him?" Draco couldn't figure out Master Snape's tone. Was he angry? Pleased?

His former professor ordered, "Get out of here."

"Why?" Draco had never questioned Master Snape in such a way, although he'd doubted the man's intentions throughout his sixth year.

"Because you're only confusing the battle. Because you're stupidly throwing your life away. Because as the last of the Malfoys, it is your duty to continue the family line. Take your pick." Draco didn't move.

Master Snape huffed with annoyance. "If you're so determined to die, go tell Potter that the snake is dead. He'll know why."

There was a reason for killing it beyond the fact that it was the Dark Lord's familiar, and possibly the largest snake Draco had ever seen? How interesting. But… "Potter's not here. I don't know where—"

"They've gone back to Little Hangleton. I have a Portkey."

Little Hangleton—hadn't Draco seen that mentioned when he—oh. "It's true, then," he said, the last bit of disbelief dying. "The Dark Lord is a half-blood."

"Lupin's doing, I presume," Snape said mockingly.

"And you? Is it true? Are you a—a half-blood too?" Master Snape didn't answer, although no answer was its own answer, somehow—he just held up the Porkey in offer. Months ago, he had given Draco another Portkey. So much had changed, and now they were here again.

Master Snape must have misinterpreted Draco's expression, and added, "It's keyed into the barrier. You'll get through. Remember: tell Potter the snake is dead."

Draco blurted, "What side are you on, anyway?"

Master Snape said only, "The same side as every true Slytherin." He threw the Portkey at Draco, and Draco caught it reflexively. And the Portkey swept him away.

Lucius Malfoy taught that the dead were nothing to be feared unless one had dishonoured them. Draco had often done his studies on pureblood family trees shaded by one of the mausoleums dotting Malfoy land. Graveyards did not, as a rule, bother him.

This one did. There was no reason for it, at least not one that Draco's physical senses could detect. Nothing unusual about the gravestones, even the tilted ones, nothing strange about the supernatural silence. Some unease undoubtedly came because _this_ graveyard should not have been quiet. Where were the voices of the combatants? Or, if the battle was at long-last finished, why not some exultation from the Dark Lord? And—Draco's Dark locator spell, cast only a few hours earlier, sang in his veins, sensing the Darkest of magics nearby.

Draco moved cautiously forward, using the gravestones as cover and holding his wand at ready. At the back of the cemetery, he found Potter.

* * *

A little short, but it seemed like a good place to stop. 17 parts down, and 1 to go…. 


	18. The Ministry of Magic

Well, here we are—the last chapter, and just in time. It's a bit longer than the others, but not quite as long as it looks, because I couldn't resist putting a few notes at the end.

None of the characters, places or events in this series are mine. And actually, the poem I decided to start this section with isn't mine either. It's part of one by the American poet Billy Collins (I really wanted to put it all in, but I tried to shorten it a bit). It was written in memory of the September 11th victims.

Part 18- The Ministry of Magic

_The Names  
__By Billy Collins_

_Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.  
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,  
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,  
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,  
Then Baxter and Calabro,  
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place  
As droplets fell through the dark.  
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.  
Names slipping around a watery bend.  
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.  
In the morning, I walked out barefoot  
Among thousands of flowers  
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,  
And each had a name --  
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal  
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.  
Names written in the pale sky.  
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.  
Names silent in stone  
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)  
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.  
Alphabet of names in a green field.  
Names in the small tracks of birds.  
Names lifted from a hat  
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.  
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.  
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart_.

Potter's hair was plastered to his head. His face was very white, startling against the sky and the gravestones. "It's all over, then," he rasped. He coughed wetly, and looking closer, Draco could see a stain growing on the front of his robes.

"What happened?"

"Over…."

Draco looked in the same direction as Potter, and saw another huddled shape on the ground. He stepped forward quickly for a better view, then recoiled. It was the Dark Lord. Half his chest was torn away, but his face was still recognizable, the red eyes open and empty. Another cough brought his attention back to Potter, and Draco turned away from his old master.

Muttering a quick, "_Lumos_," Draco gaped at the devastating wounds on the other's body. His stomach was a bloody mess, his left foot appeared to be—gone—and a series of wicked-looking cutting hexes slashed from his right collarbone to where the injuries in his stomach began. Transferring the light to his free hand, Draco cast _Propinquus vulnus_ once, then again with more will behind it. _Close the wounds_. "Merlin, Potter, what happened?"

Potter blinked and said slowly, "Malfoy?" Then he seemed to process Draco's question and said, "I killed him. Like I was supposed too. But it didn't happen like I thought."

"Blowing his chest apart wasn't the plan?" Draco said wryly, casting another clotting spell and an endurance charm. Did he have any Blood-Replenishing potion on him?

Potter snorted. "That slowed him down for, ah, a few seconds. No. It was _Avada Kedavra_. At the end. Thought I'd die too." He coughed again, and Draco considered uneasily that there could be a punctured lung. A flick of his wand immobilized Potter from the neck down.

"You can't cast the Killing Curse at the Dark Lord," Draco argued, hyper-aware of the body behind him. "Your wand would explode. And he can block it." Had the body just moved a little? Draco could still remember the demonstration, the ringing voice of the Slytherin warning them all against betrayal, the green light stopping a centimeter before Voldemort's wand.

"Didn't cast it. I can stop it… too. Didn't, 'cause…."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Because what?" He held his still-glowing fingertips to his vials of potions. He did have some Blood-Replenisher, thank Merlin. He promptly dumped it into Potter's mouth and the other sputtered, but most of it went down.

Potter closed his eyes for a moment, grimacing at the taste, but when he spoke again his voice was stronger. "I had a choice. I could stop it but I didn't. I thought it would take us both. Because he didn't know—he didn't understand the choice. The love. Understand?" Draco had no idea what Potter was talking about, but a response didn't appear to be required, because Potter went on, "I was _supposed_ to die." He sounded plaintive. His breathing was growing erratic.

So Saint Potter wanted to die, did he? Draco suddenly saw red. He exploded, "You bloody coward! You had bloody better not die! I refuse to compete for Lupin's affection against a dead, martyred, bloody Boy-Who-Died!"

He paused for air and saw Potter staring up at him in surprise. "I've never heard you swear that much before." He tilted his head. "You don't understand love either, do you? You don't—"

Draco cut him off. "Where's your foot?" Potter looked blank. "Your left foot?" Sighing at Potter's complete lack of comprehension, he conjured some bandages and spelled them onto Potter's stump.

Potter was looking at him with something like pity in his eyes, and Draco could tell he was about to start talking about love again, so he was almost relieved at the distinctive sharp crack of Apparition. He swung around, expecting to block a Death Eater's attack on Potter. Someone shouted, "_Stupefy_!" and Draco had a split-second to realize he'd assumed wrong before the darkness overtook him.

When he woke he was in a cell, on a thin, pale blue cot. A man he didn't recognize wearing Auror's robes leaned against the doorway, watching him. Draco thought back-Lupin… Hogwarts… the graveyard in Little Hangleton…. When he spoke, his voice felt rusty. "Potter?"

The Auror straightened. "At St. Mungo's. Want to tell me what happened? Or where you've been the last seven months?"

Draco cleared his throat. "Am I—what am I charged with?"

"What makes you think you're charged with anything?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and made a show of examining the tiny room, his meaning clear. He felt alarmingly weak though, so he didn't attempt sitting up.

The Auror conjured a chair and sat down. "Things have been rather chaotic," he admitted. "There _is_ still an active warrant out for your arrest, I think, on charges of being a Death Eater, and an accomplice to the murder of Albus Dumbledore."

He hadn't thought of Dumbledore in a long time. "Seven months?" he managed.

"Six and a half. But there are reports of you fighting against Death Eaters at the battle of Hogwarts. And… Harry Potter was quite insistent." Seeing Draco's bows knit together, the Auror elaborated, "That you'd saved his life."

_Potter's blood slick on his fingers. Swearing, screaming at him. __Jumbled thoughts—Don't __you dare die, don't you fucking dare die. A dark shape crumbled behind him…_ "Is he dead?"

"Harry Potter?"

"No! The Dark Lord."

"He… seems to be. My understanding is that there will be more tests done on the body. To be certain."

The Dark Lord. Dead. Really dead. It hardly seemed real. And another thought: "Hogwarts. Did it-"

"Fall? No. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must have been aiding his armies somehow. They fell into disarray at the moment of his death."

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. "Now what?"

"Now I ask my questions again. What happened? Where have you been the last seven months… Draco Malfoy?"

"Call me Draco."

"You no longer consider yourself a Malfoy?"

"I don't know who I am anymore," Draco admitted. He opened his eyes but didn't look at the other man. There was a stain in the ceiling exactly overhead, maybe a shade left. "I've been living with Remus Lupin." He could hardly hurt Lupin now.

"Remus Lupin… the werewolf?"

"Remus Lupin, member of the Order of the Phoenix," Draco corrected. "Remus Lupin, who gave his life to aid Potter's quest."

"He's dead?"

"As good as," Draco said, his voice bitter. "I left him at the Longbottom mansion. I don't know where he is now. Could—could you find out for me?" He thought he'd kept any emotion out of his voice, but at the Auror's silence he looked up, and the other man's eyes were full of pity.

"I'll go ask." The Auror stood and banished the chair.

"Wait. Auror…."

"Blancraft."

"Auror Blancraft, may I have some water?" The Auror wordlessly conjured a full pitcher and a drinking glass, both plastic, and knocked on the door to be let out. And Draco was alone.

He was alone for a long time.

He sat on the blue cot, thoughts churning. Was it really over? Could it be? Had Mrs. Longbottom saved Lupin? What was left of Hogwarts? Eventually, it was his need to use the toilet that brought him to his feet. He pounded on the door. "Hey! …anyone?"

He was about to pound the door again when he heard footsteps, and a minute later the door to his cell as opened by a heavyset witch. Her smooth, doughy face radiated surprise. "I didn't know anyone was here!"

"I need to go to the toilet," Draco told her, and she escorted him, wand aimed at his head the whole while. When he was done, she took him back to his cell and went off to find some answers.

An hour or so later she was back, saying, "Mr. Malfoy, you're being moved to another room, if you'll just come this way please." They walked down the corridor and went up a few flights of stairs, her wand pointed somewhere between Draco and the floor, and ended up in a small but perfectly serviceable apartment. "If you need anything, just press this button."

Draco sat on the bed to test its firmness and frowned. "Am I a prisoner?"

The witch shifted uncomfortably. "For the time being, you're a guest of the Ministry."

"A guest. So I can leave if I wish?"

"Er—"

Draco had expected as much. "I have a message for Potter."

Her eyes widened. "The Killer of Voldemort? Oh, he's very busy right now. I could send a message maybe, don't know when he'd get it…."

"No, I want to deliver it to him personally. It's important." It had to be, right? He injected his voice with cool, pureblood confidence, and she automatically nodded in acceptance.

Another hour of waiting, and an unsmiling guard took Draco to a small office tucked away behind the Misuse of Magical Artifacts office. Potter was inside, wearing shoddy, too-big grey robes. Draco could see the beginning of the wound at Potter's collarbone. It would undoubtedly scar.

Potter was looking through a large stack of parchments, occasionally jotting notes. He didn't look up when Draco entered, just said, "You have a message?"

"I saw Master Snape at the battle. He wanted you to know that the snake was dead."

Potter's quill paused, then he resumed writing. "Yes, I know."

"Oh." Maybe it hadn't been that important after all. "Someone else told you."

"No. If the snake wasn't dead, Voldemort wouldn't be either. Maybe temporarily defeated again."

Draco briefly imagined the Dark Lord gone for another ten years, only to rise again. "And you don't think you should have waited to make sure it was dead before killing—him?"

Potter put his quill down and looked at Draco, a cynicism in his expression that seemed new. "I suppose I could have nicely asked Voldemort to wait a few more minutes." He rolled his eyes when Draco flinched just a little at the name, and said, "Get used to hearing it. I insisted that if they had to give me another ridiculous title, it had to include "Voldemort." Can you imagine people going around saying, "The-Man-Who-Killed-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Honestly." He started to pick up a paper again, but when Draco didn't move he said, "Yes? Something else?"

"Have you heard anything about Lupin?"

A pained expression crossed Potter's face. "I'm apparently the acting Minister for Magic, but—yes. It doesn't look good. The Hor—the device, well, it wasn't something designed to only injure. An almost identical spell was what killed Hermione."

"So he'll die."

"Maybe. He's in a coma now, stable I think, but…." Potter shrugged. "If I thought there was no hope I think I'd leave the Wizarding World altogether. But the Healers seem very excited by the whole thing, and I can't leave him alone."

"He wouldn't be _alone_," Draco muttered. If Draco wasn't sent to Azkaban, anyway.

"Maybe not. But if I am not the only one of his friends, left, well, he is one of the only ones of mine."

Draco rolled his eyes at that. Potter had the whole Wizarding world to moon after him—why did he need Lupin too?

Potter apparently sensed Draco's thoughts. "Malfoy… Draco… That's the thing about love, what Voldemort couldn't understand either. People don't have a set amount of love to give out. There's always more." A hint of a smile. "And if it were a competition, I suspect we'd both lose out to Neville. He's with Moony now."

For months, Lupin had been the only person for Draco to interact with—as himself, anyway. He was only now realizing that Lupin hadn't experienced the same isolation. He'd been with the Order of the Phoenix, and Potter, and who knew who else, just as much as he'd seen Draco. It was an uncomfortable thought.

Potter dismissed him, saying he'd look into Draco's case, though Draco hadn't asked him to, and Draco was taken back to his rooms. He'd actually had a civil conversation with Potter. Somehow, with everything that had happened, going out of his way to antagonize the other didn't seem worth it. What would be the point?

Two days later, on the fields of Hogwarts, the Dark Lord's body was publicly burnt. Draco, still waiting for news about what would happen to him, did not attend. His days had been quiet—he received the _Prophet_, skimming past its self-congratulations (not so many businesses and functioned throughout the war). Lupin was not mentioned, one way or the other.

Tracey Davis lived. Filius Flitwick did not. Severus Snape, Master of Potions, had vanished. His body was not found at Hogwarts, and the Aurors still hunted him. Draco had confidence that they'd never find him, though.

He was not the only one to disappear. Over fifty witches and wizards were officially declared missing. Perhaps, in the next few months, they'd find Seamus Finnegan in a dungeon under a manor house, chained to a wall, on the edge of mania but alive. It was not impossible that Justin Finch-Fletchley had retreated into the muggle world he had come from, locking his wand in a drawer and never opening it again. Maybe someday, Aurors would identify the bodies of the Bulstrodes. But it was just as likely all their fates would remain shrouded in mystery. Who could say?

The chief disagreement between the _Prophet's_ editors now seemed to be what the memorial for the fallen would look like. Some favoured something understated, with clean flowing lines—perhaps simple names chiseled onto stone. That appealed to Draco's sensibilities. Others, though, wanted some grand monument, sculptures and enchanted marble.

The day before Christmas, Potter came to Draco's rooms. Without preamble, he said, "You set off every one of the Ministry's Dark Detectors when you arrived, and your wand shows the Imperius Curse. That alone gives me the power to send you to Azkaban for life."

"You have that power anyway," Draco retorted. "No one will say no to the great Harry Potter."

"Tonks tells me you can brew Wolfsbane." Draco's brow wrinkled in confusion; what did that have to do with anything? Potter continued, "Do you know how many people can claim that? Perhaps four percent of the population."

"You want me to make Wolfsbane for werewolves?"

"And to research something to help Moony. The healers think potions may provide the best chance for a full recovery, but they say an entirely new one will need to be developed."

"And you trust me to do this?" Draco asked doubtfully.

"I believe you have a vested interest in success. They don't." Draco blinked—that sounded positively Slytherin. Cold and logical, and so unlike the fiery Gryffindor of their school days, Potter said, "I can get you an Exemption 4. All the Light's spies are getting them. Full clemency. I can get you into any Mastery program in the world. In return I want you to work for the benefit of all werewolves, but especially Remus Lupin. By the end of your Mastery I expect significant progress on both fronts."

Draco couldn't help a bitter laugh. "Sure," he said sarcastically. "While I'm at it, I'll just go rediscover _Victus Incendia-Aurum_ in the next two years."

Potter gave him a perfectly blank look and Draco groaned in frustration. How could some as powerful as Potter, who defeated the—who'd defeated _Voldemort_ for Merlin's sake, still know so little?

In the end, there was little to do but accept Potter's proposal. He did not see Potter again, though it seemed the other wizard would fill the front page of the Prophet every day for some time to come.

"Thinking hard?"

Draco jumped; he hadn't heard the door open, and his Auror guards usually knocked. The young witch before him seemed slightly familiar, but he couldn't place her. Then again, the disfiguring scar across her face—not unlike the false one of "Jacob Elliott"—was rather distracting. Averting his eyes, Draco answered, "Thinking about which school to go to for my Mastery, actually. The Potions Institute in America is well respected, but more focused on 'technological' advancement than on Wizarding Health. Poland has Uczelnia od Napoje, of course, but rumour is they've been falling in quality the past few years." _According to Master Snape, anyway_, Draco added mentally. Snape was a Napoje graduate, and his rants about the Academy many and varied. "Of course, there's Simoyao Xuexiao in Western China, but China?" Draco wrinkled his nose at the thought.

"What's wrong with China?" asked the witch lightly, and it was then that Draco noticed her Asiatic features and light brown skin.

"Ah, no offense meant, Miss."

She laughed. "You have no idea who I am, do you, Malfoy? Su Li, Ravenclaw. I sat behind you in Astromy for six years." Draco's face reddened, but he had no chance to speak, for she went on, "I'm here to take you to Malfoy Manor for your personal effects, and also to St. Mungo's if you wish."

Draco had requested a visit home, but didn't realize it would be so soon. "No word yet on when the Ministry will release it back to me, I suppose?"

Li shook her head. "Not anytime soon. But you'll be away at school anyway, won't you? America or Poland, or even, dare I suggest—China?"

They went to the Manor first. Draco got a tight feeling in his chest when he saw it. He half-expected to see his mother inside, overseeing last-minute adjustments to the holiday decorations before the dinner guests started arriving. But the entrance hall was dark and quiet. A few elves came up, but Draco did not need them. He selected some clothes, a few Potions books and other odds and ends. He didn't go near his father's study, or the dungeon's, or the hidden cache of jewels. Li was quiet, her eyes watchful.

Then they went to Diagon Alley for a few more purchases. It was Christmas Day, and shattered families were pulling together. The Christmas decorations were overly bright in some places, as people foraged into the future, and nonexistent in others. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was bright and crowded, but Draco did not glimpse any red heads inside as they went by. He did see Pansy, stepping over a pile of half-melted slush on the road. Draco studied her for a moment; she looked barely put-together and almost desperate. Then she saw him; an ugly frown appeared on her blunt features, and she deliberately crossed to the other side of the street.

If she thought the snub would hurt Draco, she was sadly mistaken. He never would have married her.

He bought little at the Alley. No owl—who would he send it to? Only a few potions supplies, as it was better to wait until he got a supply list from his chosen school. His one extravagance was a small pensieve. A bit silly to buy one for the purpose of viewing one memory, but at the Manor he'd remembered—the memories of his mother's memorial. Undoubtedly the small vial was still at Lupin's.

Then they went to the hospital. It was crowded. Some of the lines of people were boisterous and laughing, pulling sparkling, singing balloons along. Other sat on the hard plastic chairs with their heads in their hands, caught in a waking nightmare of one sort or another.

Dora was at the room when Draco and Li arrived. She nodded to Li and gave Draco a hard look. Draco ignored her and pulled back the curtain hiding the bed.

Lupin slept. His face was fuller than Draco remembered—the nutritional potions and lack of strain was, in a perverse way, making him healthier than he'd been in a long time. He didn't look like he was in any pain, at least.

Draco hesitantly reached out and touched a shoulder—then shook it a bit. Of course, there was no reaction. Draco opened his mouth, but paused; why bother? It wasn't as though Lupin could hear him, anyway. But Dora and Li were listening, so… "I'm still angry, you know. I'm thinking about forgiving you, but if you don't wake up I definitely won't. So you have to, you see." He turned to Li. "I'm ready to go."

"That's it?" said Dora. "Harry says you care about him, love him even, but I don't see it." Her voice was accusing; her hair was dark, sparkly blue today.

Draco frowned at the word 'love.' He was a Malfoy. He didn't love anyone, not completely. Just Mother. He said only, "I'm more use to him in a Potions lab than sitting at his side sniffling or whispering endearments."

She flushed, looking angry, and Li cut in, "We can go, then. Mr. Malfoy? This way."

He had an allowance from the Ministry, but he was still officially its "guest" until he went off to school. He'd stay in England through the January full moon (for observation purposes only, he told himself). Then he was off to Poland, or America, or China.

Vincent Crabbe was scheduled to receive the Dementor's Kiss on January 3rd, the day before Draco was due to receive a commendation, one being given to everyone who'd fought at Hogwarts.

What a strange world—Potter alive, and Draco's mother dead. _Avada Kedavra_ the weapon used to stop an evil, and Draco being honoured as a Light Wizard. Draco didn't know if Wizarding Britain would ever recover—or if the Malfoy name would. He was not, as a rule, optimistic about the future. And yet… he was alive. Lupin was not totally lost either, not yet. Was Draco a traitor to Slytherin for the part he'd played? He didn't know. But he'd made his choice, and whether it was the right one or not, it was done.

The only way to go was forward.

* * *

Wow, this chapter did not want to end. It did rush a bit, but then, all of chapters 16 and 17, and part of this chapter, cover one day. No wonder skipping through a week seems fast.

I will not be writing a sequel—a sequel to this story would by necessity have lots of original characters, potions theory, and not be set in England. I will leave it to you to imagine whether Remus is healed in the end—whether Draco ever truly accepts Muggleborns and Muggles—whether Draco finds out he's a veela and Harry's mate and (after a passionate affair) they have oodles of little blond, green-eyed children, etc… : )

My next story (whenever that will be—the job, travel and the GRE will be getting in the way for a while) will probably be a Stargate story, but I have lots of HP ideas, most involving Remus Lupin somehow, so I hope you won't forget my name entirely.

Thank you very, very much to everyone who reviewed this story (you all have excellent karma, if you believe in that kind of thing). Aside from a oneshot, this is my first venture into writing Harry Potter fic, and you helped make it a very good experience. Enjoy _Deathly Hollows_, and again, my thanks to you all.

-purpleshrub  
July 20, 2007


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